


I'll Tell You All About It

by triggerswaggiehavoc



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucket List, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, Slow Build, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerswaggiehavoc/pseuds/triggerswaggiehavoc
Summary: In the age of the internet, online dating can become an answer for many. Junhui is just one of that many, though the answer he gets isn't exactly what he thought it would be. He finds that it rarely is.





	1. Chapter 1

Junhui is watching it all unfold. Every day that passes, every minute. Time is crawling forward. He’s getting older and he can’t stop it; all he can do is watch the world happen around him, watch things and people move on, and watch life turn out wrong.

When he was younger, he’d always expected things to be a certain way once he got older, always had a specific plan for how his life would go and a set idea of how it would end. He’d be happily married sometime in his late twenties maybe, potentially have a kid or two, earn some degree and get some office job that kept food in his stomach and a roof over his head, and when all was said and done and he sat old and gray and weary in a rocking chair somewhere, he would look back and say that he lived a good life, that he was happy, and that he was content to breathe his last.

The first wrench flew into the plan when he made it to high school. There was this boy in his freshman year gym class who was tall and lean and curved in all the right ways, wore these big square glasses that made his eyes look like Junhui’s favorite movie, had this messy, curly hair that reminded him of the dog his grandparents had when he was in elementary school. Junhui doesn’t remember his name anymore, but he does still remember the way he used to accidentally stare at his back in the locker room and count the notches in his spine, the way his shoes squeaked on the gym floor whenever he walked by and Junhui couldn’t tear his eyes away. They made eye contact one time all year, and he smiled; Junhui’s heart beat so hard he thought he was going to die. He dreamt about it every night for four days.

There was another boy after that, in his geometry class in tenth grade, small and quiet and charmingly chubby, and then another and another and so many he couldn’t keep track of it, so many he realized looking at girls didn’t give him the same kind of feeling, so many he realized that he was not exactly what a lot of people probably thought he was.

Being a gay man in a social setting that didn’t actively want much to do with gay men was not necessarily conducive to his marriage plot. He didn’t date a soul in high school, only had his first kiss in secret at a party when he was sixteen with some guy he never met before who was just as scared as he was. When he made it to college, it was easier to be more open about things, but he was too unpracticed to try dating anyone for more than three months no matter how much he wanted to. Things fell apart no matter how much glue he smeared on them, and he had to learn to live with it.

The second wrench arrived when he was a sophomore in college. There were money issues, as there always are in a world where money exists, and there were people issues, and there were general life issues, and in the face of all of them, Junhui had to withdraw from the university and end his educational career in favor of a more laborious one. He got a job at a gas station that paid too much for a job at a gas station but not enough for everything he was expected to be responsible for at the gas station; fortunately, it was just the right amount for everything he needed to cover to keep himself breathing, so he kept it up for three hard years.

In a weird way, his job at the gas station shaped him more than anything he learned in his year and a half of college. It was a 24-hour place that didn’t see much business to begin with because of competitively undesirable gas prices, and when he had to work the graveyard shift from 10:00 in the evening to 6:00 in the morning, there was a certain way the dingy lights cast themselves over the rows of unpurchased potato chips and salted crackers that made him start to look at things in a different way. The mundane started to seem like just a little bit more, and he wished he could show someone else what he meant by that.

That was where his interest in photography began. He saved up extra from his paychecks and bought himself a crappy little camera, started taking pictures whenever he could from the angles he thought looked the most like what he saw, and the more he practiced, the more he liked it. Bit by bit, he saved a little more from every paycheck, and with enough time, he was able to buy a real nice camera, the kind with a lot of functions and a big old lens where the pictures are so clear you can see each separate atom of every single object and each individual particle of dust sitting on the air.

Days off became short trips to anywhere he could get that was close and pretty. Sometimes he would even photograph people from across a square or while they stood on a bridge, just silhouettes part of a vast backdrop, and sometimes he would ask permission, ask if he could capture bits of their faces, slivers of their expressions to really make the picture speak. It was just a hobby, but it was a hobby that made him feel something good, and he would have been perfectly content to keep it as one if the lone friend he’d made in his single year of college had never prompted him to change that.

Jeonghan had been in his introductory economics class, and as it happened, his major was in art, focused in photography. They only ever spoke in the first place because he spilled an entire venti latte on Junhui’s bookbag once when arriving late to class, and since then, they kept in contact dutifully. When Jeonghan heard about Junhui’s new photography hobby, he insisted on seeing all the photographs Junhui had to show him, and once he’d seen them, he insisted Junhui abandon his job at the gas station and come work with him at the professional photography business his cousin owned. He promised the pay was better and the city was nicer and the work felt like it was worth something, so after three full years and some change, Junhui bid adieu to the dim lighting of the gas station and moved onto bigger and better things.

He still does it now, all these years later. He’s thirty-three and a few months over, and it still gives him the same sense of fulfilment in the center of his chest as it did when he first began. He’s spent his last six birthdays alone in his apartment eating a miniature cake from the grocery store, but he finally gets to do work he loves; in economics, that’s what they would call an opportunity cost.

That’s life, Junhui figures. Opportunity costs and more of them, trade-offs until you die. You give what you have to and you get what’s given and you learn to deal with it. A nice apartment for a close one, a decent breakfast for twenty more minutes of sleep, a relationship for a job he loves. Maybe they aren’t all direct exchanges, but Junhui has learned by now to deal with it. Maybe it’s not what he wanted or planned, but he’s dealing with it.

Come October, Jeonghan decides he is tired of Junhui dealing with it. “You’re the saddest man alive,” he tells him while Junhui tries to organize pictures from his latest job, headshots for some aspiring actor. Jeonghan spends alarmingly little time at his own desk, and he’s only gotten progressively worse since Junhui’s latest birthday. “I’m tired of watching you be so miserable.”

“Oh, really?” Junhui mutters drily, eyes unmoving from the computer screen. “I, personally, am having a great time.” Just get these pictures sorted into the files. It’s very easy. At least, it would be easy if Jeonghan were not actively trying to make it more difficult.

“I’m serious. I know Seokmin”—Jeonghan’s husband, whom he married six years ago and is thus the reason Junhui has spent all subsequent birthdays on his own—“likes to pity you and have you over for dinner, but I am so tired of you interrupting our alone time. If you weren’t there, we could—”

“I’m very familiar with what you could do if I didn’t show up,” Junhui groans, clicking to the next photo. The lighting is weirdly off-putting. “I don’t need the explicit details.” Jeonghan scoffs and leans into Junhui’s space further. His arm is directly blocking a large chunk of the screen, which means Junhui can’t do any work until he’s gone, and he doesn’t get the vibe he’ll be leaving any time soon.

“Seriously.” He sure must be serious if he has to say it twice. “You need to find someone so you don’t have to be so damn glum all the time.”

“Great idea. I never thought of it like that.” He releases his mouse to rest his chin on his palm and gaze dreamily up at Jeonghan. “I’ll just ask one of the million men lined up at my door to court me.” Jeonghan’s eyes roll for a mile.

“I’m sure you _would_ have men lined up at your door if you gave them a door to line up at.” Junhui eyes him from under an arched brow.

“I don’t know what metaphor you’re trying to establish, and I don’t really want to.” He grabs his mouse again and hits Jeonghan’s arm in an impatient rhythm. “Go back to your own desk so I can get my work done.”

“Hear me out, Junhui.” Junhui does not want to hear him out, but Jeonghan’s arm is still too in the way for him to do anything else. “You should sign up for a dating site.” He waits for the punchline. He keeps waiting. The trains must be running late today.

“I guess my hearing is going,” he muses, “because I know you did not just tell me to try online dating.”

“Really! People do it all the time these days. I’m sure you could find _someone_.” Jeonghan’s eyes are so glittery with hope; Junhui almost feels a little bad to extinguish them.

“Absolutely not.” Suddenly, there is not just an arm blocking his view, but an entire half of a body.

“I won’t go back to my desk until you do it,” Jeonghan drawls, sweet in the fakest of ways, smug and full of smarm. Junhui uses both lungs to hold out a sigh until he runs out of breath. As expected, it’s not enough to make Jeonghan leave.

“Why do you even care so much? It’s not like I come over _that_ often.” Jeonghan fixes him with a look that tells him he won’t like the answer but doesn’t give him a chance to retract his inquiry.

“Because you’re an extremely unattractive sad person, and I’m tired of you uglying up the place.” His voice betrays no hint of insincerity, nor does his face remorse. Junhui eyes him cautiously.

“You know,” he begins, “there’s something I’ve thought a lot that I haven’t told you, and it’s that Seokmin is way too good for you and you really don’t deserve him.” Jeonghan’s eyes roll on for a few miles more.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he scoffs. When Junhui makes no indication he’s about to sign himself up for a dating website, he sighs and tacks on, “I have all day, you know.”

With little more resistance, owed only to the fact that Junhui can tell when a battle is unwinnable and battles against Jeonghan so commonly are, Junhui surrenders his mouse and keyboard and allows Jeonghan to navigate to some online site and start signing him up. He only has to bother once it gets to username and password, and based on Jeonghan’s frustrated sigh and disgusted frown, he’s not pleased with Junhui’s choice.

“What the hell is,” he coughs once, “huiplash610?” Junhui grins, cheeks swollen with pride both obnoxious and excessive. He’s so much happier knowing Jeonghan hates it.

“You like it?” he asks. “It’s a pun with whiplash, because I’m so handsome, you know, and then my name. And the 610 is for my birthday.”

“I am aware the 610 is for your shitty birthday.” He gives Junhui a good once over while he leans back and starts to leave for his own desk, eyes like a hawk deciding if the mouse it’s after is even worth the dive. “Jesus. You’re going to die alone,” he says at last.

“Does that mean I don’t have to do it anymore?”

“Of course you still have to do it,” Jeonghan says with a graceless snort. “Just because you’re going to die alone doesn’t mean you have to live alone.” He crosses his arms and roots himself in place just far enough away that he looks like he’s leaving but still close enough that he can watch Junhui’s screen. “Soon as you’re finished signing up, I’ll be good and gone.” With an exhausted exhale, he clicks through the final few fields to confirm the account, and once Jeonghan sees he’s done so, he paints a satisfied sneer on his face and marches back to his own desk to get just as much work done as Junhui has for the past ten minutes.

The site demands a few more things from him, more specifications on the kind of guy he’d like to meet in particular, and he makes them as rigid as he thinks he can. Has to live in the same area, has to be around his age, has to like being photographed—Junhui’s always been a fan of taking his work home with him—has to like pets, et cetera. As he looks over his criteria, he’s very sure he’s not likely to have anyone contacting him through this site any time soon, and with that thought in mind, he closes out and returns his brain fully to work. Something is slightly off about the lighting in every single picture, but he can’t put his finger on what it is.

A few days later, he’s got a job at a wedding. He loves doing weddings, really and truly, but something about them always gives him chest pains. More than the beautifully arranged flowers and carelessly pretty backdrops, the delicate lace bridal gowns and sharp tuxedos, he knows it has to be the way the couples’ eyes shine when they look at each other, the way they can’t get the smiles off their faces for more than a second at a time. It’s beautiful to shoot, part of what makes him like weddings so much, but it’s such a bitter stab to the gut whenever he remembers it’s something he’s not likely to have.

After this particular wedding, he heads back to the office transfer the photographs from his camera to his computer. When he clicks it awake, he notices his email tab open and blinking a notification at him impatiently. It’s spam, he tells himself, or some online magazine he never signed up for but still receives emails from for some reason, but he checks it anyway. He’s decidedly more than slightly surprised to see that it’s from the dating site, telling him someone’s sent him a message. Without intending to be so hasty about it, he quickly clicks through to the message and reads it.

It’s from a user called leehoon1122, and the message doesn’t really indicate that he’s very interested at all, just asking whether he’s lived around here long, but Junhui knows he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t respond, so he does. And leehoon1122 replies back. And Junhui replies back again. And they keep going.

Before long, Junhui realizes that leehoon1122 is not bad at all to converse with. He’s just as jaded as Junhui is, if not more so, and he’s so dry in his words that every message seems like it’ll be the last, but he still keeps sending them. He’ll never thank Jeonghan for making him do this, but his brain is halfway to thinking that it might someday want to when he realizes he still hasn’t transferred the files. Lack of productivity. Definitely a bad thing, and certainly not something he needs to thank Jeonghan for now or ever.

After about a week and a half’s continued correspondence, leehoon1122 proposes the idea of having dinner together, and despite Junhui’s inability to remember the last time he went on a date to begin with, he agrees to it. Dinner is going to be on a Thursday, and Junhui’s mind is engaged exclusively in trying to find clothes that don’t look too much like work clothes and also aren’t sweatpants on the previous Wednesday evening when he gets a call from Seokmin.

“Hey,” he bubbles excitedly through the speakers the second Junhui accepts the call, loud and clear and lively. It’s always been a mystery how someone as bitter as Jeonghan is found himself a partner in someone so overwhelmingly positive. “Jeonghan and I were wondering,” he begins, and Junhui reckons it’s awfully considerate of him to still pretend Jeonghan is at all part of these plans, “if you wanted to come have dinner with us tomorrow night. I’m making my legendary, earth-shattering lasagna, and it would be a shame if you had to miss out on it.”

“I would love to devour your entire dish of lasagna,” he says, tossing a soft brown cardigan into the possibility pile, “but I actually have a date tomorrow night, so I can’t come crash your dinner.” In the time it takes Seokmin to surmount his wave of shock, Junhui tosses another sweater into the possibility pile and discards another four items to the dungeon. He has yet to find a pair of pants that hits the perfect blend between formal and casual that he’s after.

“A date?” Seokmin asks, soft and hesitant, like he can’t believe his ears and is perhaps a little scared to believe them. Junhui is both empathetic and offended. “You haven’t been on a date in, what, five years?”

“Has it been that long?” Another shirt banished to the graveyard, but this next pair of pants seems like it might fit the bill. “I couldn’t remember.”

“Well,” Seokmin says, clearing his throat, “I’m happy you’re putting yourself back out there.” Not by choice, Junhui would like to inform him. He passes the pants into the possibility pile because he frankly cannot afford not to. “I hope it goes well. The lasagna and I will miss you.” His pointed exclusion of Jeonghan does not go unnoticed. Junhui laughs one hard chuckle into the receiver.

“Sure,” he hums. “Please save me a piece of it, though. I still need some hope in my life.”

“Ah, but of course.” His smile is audible through the line. Junhui sometimes wishes he knew Jeonghan through Seokmin instead of the other way around. “Hannie never eats that much of it anyway.” A loud noise comes from somewhere which is doubtless related to Jeonghan in some way, and Seokmin sighs tiredly into the phone. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to hang up. See you whenever I see you, and good luck with your date!” Junhui is too preoccupied to say thank you, and by the time his mind has the capacity for it, a dial tone is already ringing loudly through his ears. Another garment flies into the no pile.

Thursday night arrives quickly, and even as Junhui strides up the sidewalk toward the front doors of the restaurant, he still feels like his pants are just a little too workish for the occasion, but he tried his best to balance it out with a sweater that’s not quite nice enough. Unfortunately, it’s also not quite warm enough, and the evening breezes cut through every pore in the knitting with incredible ease. He isn’t parked far away at all, but by the time he makes it to the door and swings it open to enter the glorious heat, he’s shivering like mad. If only it waited a little longer to get cold here like it did back home; he thought he’d be used to it by now, but then again, there are many things he’s thought before that he’s been wrong about.

There’s a very small alcove at the front of the restaurant that’s meant for waiting on a table, but there doesn’t seem to be much of a crowd, so Junhui cops a seat on a bench there to wait for his date to arrive in lieu of seeing a host. He doesn’t have any pictures on his profile like Junhui does, so Junhui can only hope he’s viewed his pictures and will be able to recognize him when he arrives. The seat is so cold it’s freezing the backs of his legs even through his slacks, and he’s desperately hopeful leehoon1122 arrives sometime soon so he can get a little closer to the real heat.

The next three people who walk through the door are all not leehoon1122, and for the first time, Junhui has the thought that he may have been tricked. He folds his hands in his lap and stares them down. Well, these kinds of things do happen sometimes, but he is 33 years old and a fully grown man who can take care of himself, so if he has been duped, he’ll just walk it off like nothing happened, go home and tell Jeonghan that the date wasn’t that great and he’ll keep looking for someone else. He’ll allow ten more minutes before calling it a bust.

After only six minutes, an angel walks through the door. He’s a smaller guy with medium brown hair that’s just a little curly and a slim pair of silver frames perched on his nose, one Junhui thinks is a very nice nose. All of his features are nice, right down to the chin, and he’s wearing a burgundy pea coat that looks especially nice and enviably warm. He looks too young to be leehoon1122, but Junhui clings to a shred of hope that he is anyway. A part of him is desperate to think he can be so lucky, and he’ll also feel bad if he finds out he eyed up another man before his date arrived at the scene.

The angel looks around with sharp eyes for just a second before catching a glimpse of Junhui and heading straight for him. Junhui’s heart skips so hard that he springs to his feet without meaning to, and the angel looks up at him calmly when he nears, mouth pressed into a line to reveal a set of charming dimples at its corners.

“You’re huiplash610, right?” he asks in a voice much more gravelly than Junhui expects. It sets his pulse a little faster while he nods, untucking his hand from his pocket and offering it swiftly.

“Yeah. Junhui is, uh,” he manages before his lips go dry. The hand that envelops his is overwhelmingly cold despite how warm the pockets of his coat look. “Call me Junhui.”

“Jihoon,” he says in return. What a lovely name, Junhui thinks. “Have you gotten a table yet?”

“Uh, no.” Idiot! “I was waiting for you first, you know, in case I was getting stood up.” Jesus, he’s way more awkward than he anticipated, but instead of giving him an annoyed look like he probably deserves, Jihoon just pulls his lips into a dry smile.

“Smart,” he says, then marches up to the host to ask for a table. When he follows, Junhui notices that his heart is beating just fast enough to be abnormal, maybe indicative of an oncoming heart attack, and his palms are grossly clammy. He feels like he’s been sent back to high school, like he’s sitting on the floor in the gymnasium and he still has those awful braces and he keeps flicking his eyes over to that boy every nine seconds without meaning to, only this time the boy is shaped a lot different and knows Junhui exists. Somehow, that makes it worse.

The host guides them to a booth so near the heater Junhui almost starts sweating, but it’s leagues better than shaking like a newborn deer by the doorway, so he falls onto the cushion readily, eyes across the table while Jihoon sheds his coat. He’s got a thick long-sleeved shirt on beneath it, off-white with some navy design embroidered on the front, and it sits so nicely on his shoulders that Junhui is once again led to question his own stroke of luck.

“Are you really 33?” he blurts without warning. His social ineptitude is showing, but he can’t help it. Jihoon raises his eyebrows and adjusts the glasses on his nose.

“Thirty-two,” he says calmly, just noticeably perplexed. “Why?” Jesus. Junhui is so self-conscious now about how absolutely ancient he looks. He’s also self-conscious about how poor his conversational skills have gotten and what an awful impression he must be making.

“You just look… so good,” he ventures timidly. Jihoon looks like he wants to say something, but his lips stay silent, so neither lets another word slip until a server comes to take their drink orders. It’s so ungodly awkward Junhui thinks he might muster up a tear. He’s not cut from the right cloth to be doing this.

“What are you getting?” Jihoon tries after a while. Junhui almost forgot what the sound of another human voice was like. He looks up and finds the low-hanging light fixture over their table rendered perfectly in four instances on Jihoon’s face, both lenses and each eye. He wishes he had his camera.

“I was thinking about the chicken tacos,” he muses, thumbing his lip. Truthfully, he’s been thinking more about how he’s going to survive this than what he wants to eat, but there’s an extremely appetizing picture of the chicken tacos on this page of the menu that sways him easily. Jihoon grins oddly, just a hint of teeth between stretched lips.

“So was I.” Now it’s Junhui’s turn.

Wit. Charisma. Intelligence. He has all of these at his disposal, or at least used to think he did, but now he can’t come up with anything to say. Jihoon’s eyes are dying for him to say something, but he’ll probably perish waiting over there for a response that won’t form. Junhui presses his face into his hands and takes a deep breath, slow and patient. He can’t die here. There’s a piece of lasagna waiting for him just over the rainbow.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and he hopes Jihoon gets that he means every word. “I haven’t been on a date in a long time, and you’re very good-looking, and I have no idea what to say to you.” A low chuckle slides from between Jihoon’s lips, dry and rattling.

“I can appreciate the honesty.” Relief rains down through the ceiling tiles and soaks Junhui to the bone. “I haven’t been on a date in a while, either, so let’s pretend we’re both doing fine.” Junhui could kiss him with gratitude, but the waiter comes back to take their orders before his muscles have time to act. Some servers are the direct work of god, he thinks.

Talking is marginally easier after that. Jihoon works in a drab office typing memos for a living, the kind of thing Junhui always pictured for himself when he was younger, and he lives alone too, in an apartment building just a few blocks away; he ran a little late due to underestimating how long the walk would be. He’s only lived in town for around two years, but he mostly likes it, barring the gnats in the summer and the long waits at crosswalks. He also likes the chicken tacos he orders, as does Junhui, and he likes to sing along to the muted songs coming on through the restaurant’s speaker system under his breath. Junhui figures he must also like being charming, because he certainly does is a lot.

“You don’t have to pay for both of us,” Jihoon tells him, but Junhui waves it away with the pen, intent on calculating a reasonable tip. He offers his best smile once he’s gotten the receipt signed and handed it off to their server.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, grin maintaining itself firmly. “You can pay for the next one.” And then Jihoon lets out a very small sigh, and it doesn’t have a good tone to it, and Junhui lets his face fall, hard and fast.

“There’s no good way for me to say this,” he says, “but I’m not really interested in dating you.” Ah. Junhui paints on a brave face.

“Well, I knew I wasn’t doing that great,” he begins, just a little shaky, “but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“It’s not like that,” Jihoon counters, adjusting his glasses again. “I’m just not looking for a relationship.” Now Junhui’s more flummoxed than disappointed. He keeps his eyes on Jihoon carefully, but he doesn’t know what he’s watching for.

“You know, that’s an unusual thing to say to someone you met through an online dating service.” Jihoon’s mouth tilts in a lopsided smile.

“I guess so,” he agrees softly. Junhui raises his eyebrows to prompt for more of an explanation. “Right. Well, the thing is, I’m dying.”

“Oh.” Junhui looks him over. He seems healthy, but then again, a lot of imperfect things seem to be in perfect working order from the outside, like the phone he’d left in his pocket once when he went swimming. Looked fine, sure, but it couldn’t do a damn thing. “Pretty quickly, I guess?” Jihoon’s gaze turns strange.

“Yeah,” he muses. “I guess you could say that.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Junhui tries not to get choked up, but he’s very weak in a lot of ways he doesn’t like to admit to. He pushes the lump blooming in his throat back down and beats it into submission. “But with that being the case, why did we have dinner together?”

“To be frank,” Jihoon begins, steepling his hands atop the table, “I don’t have any friends in town, and I don’t have any siblings. My parents are pretty old, and the rest of my family is so distant I don’t know most of their names. But I still have a lot of things I want to kick off my bucket list, and I need someone to help me with most of them.” Junhui hums and nods like he understands, but Jihoon keeps staring at him like he’s not getting it. After a few more seconds, he gets it.

“Wait,” he sputters, “am I supposed to be the someone?” Jihoon nods, curt and quick, specs slipping just a fraction closer to the tip of his nose. “So you’re telling me you signed up for a dating site to find someone to help you with your bucket list?”

“If you can think of a website specifically for this, you’re welcome to tell me about it.” Junhui can’t. A stiff silence falls on the table, and the server returns in the middle of it to give Junhui his card back. Jihoon exhales while he slides it back into his wallet. “Well, you don’t have to say yes, but I am running on a time limit, so I figured I should get myself to asking.”

“Am I the first person you’ve asked?”

“Yeah.” Junhui pulls his lips into a line, a crease of thought. He could weigh the pros and cons, but he’s getting too far along in life to still care about whether each choice he makes is the absolute correct one. It’s no secret that he isn’t getting younger.

“Alright,” he concedes. “If you just need someone to help, I guess there’s no reason it can’t be me.”

“Really?” Jihoon’s eyes are hopeful and shiny and gorgeous, grin teasing at his lips. Junhui regrets that he can’t date that, but he’ll take what he can get.

“Sure.”

Maybe it’s not a good idea, but maybe it is. Whether he’ll regret this or not doesn’t really matter. He needs some company just as much as Jihoon needs some help, and if he’s being honest, Jeonghan would probably kill him if he found out he let go of an opportunity for companionship. Maybe they can even split that lasagna.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jihoon and Junhui bake some bread.

On Friday morning, Junhui is greeted in the form of the bluish-clear plastic of a Tupperware container filled with one large slice of lasagna that probably ought to be split into four slices landing gracelessly atop his desk with a loud smack. He traces back to its delivery boy with his eyes, trailing up to find one akimbo arm and then the face of one Jeonghan wearing a mischievous smirk on his lips and an equally mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Junhui knows he’s going to ask how the date went, but he won’t give Jeonghan the satisfaction of not having to ask, so he pretends he doesn’t.

“Thanks,” he says, scooting the lasagna to the side of his keyboard. When he puts his hand back on his mouse and starts clicking away, Jeonghan huffs an irritated sigh.

“Seokmin told me you hate a date last night,” he offers. Junhui thinks it’s bizarre how someone who’s usually so lazy is always willing do so much bush beating to avoid articulating a question.

“Yep,” Junhui answers, dry as the scavenged bones of New Mexican roadkill. Just by the way Jeonghan inhales, it’s clear he’s getting annoyed. Junhui wonders if he’ll get tired and leave him alone this time, but he’s rarely so lucky.

“Jesus,” Jeonghan groans, “it’s like trying to bleed turnips.” Junhui arches an eyebrow. “How was it?” He’s quicker to cave today than usual, and his eyes are so very expectant when Junhui meets them. God, he wants to know so badly. It only makes Junhui less inclined to tell him.

“Good,” he says, flicking his attention back to the computer screen. Jeonghan groans aloud. If Junhui didn’t know any better, he’d think a wild animal was dying somewhere in the office.

“Why are you so annoying today?” he spits. “I went to the trouble of bringing you this delicious lasagna all the way from home and you’re shitting on me with these one-word answers. Ingrate.”

“Bullshit,” Junhui hisses, eyes still trained on his computer screen. “We both know Seokmin is the sole reason you brought this lasagna. I owe you nothing.”

“There’s a full sentence!” Jeonghan whoops loudly, leaning into Junhui’s field of vision. “Now just because I am your _friend_ who _cares_ about you, please give me a detail or _something_. Are you gonna go out with him again?” Junhui expels a heavy breath.

“I’m going to see him again,” he says, “but not romantically. Just, you know, as a friend.”

“Just a friend?” Jeonghan sputters. “I thought the date was good!”

“It was.” Junhui’s lips press into a line and unpress, two, three times in a row. There are details he can share, but he’s not sure how many of them he should give up, not sure how many Jeonghan really wants in the first place. “He just isn’t really interested in a relationship.”

“But you met on a _dating site_.” Junhui does nothing but shrug, so Jeonghan is forced to be complacent with the information, leaning back with an unnecessary eye roll. “Well, at least you have a new friend now. Don’t mess it up.” And he’s off to his own desk.

Junhui contemplates whether he ought to tell Jeonghan that Jihoon isn’t exactly permanent, but maybe it’s not really his information to give out. Maybe it’s something better kept between them, something Junhui can deal with on his own when the time comes. At least for now, he’ll keep it to himself. Maybe when they get a little closer to the finish line, he’ll spill the beans. Whenever that may be. Junhui realizes he forgot to ask and clicks open the folder for the wedding he worked last week. The pictures turned out beautifully, but he’s not very eager to look at them.

After dinner, they’d hastily exchanged numbers, and Junhui insisted on driving Jihoon back because it was just too cold out and his hands were like ice at the start of dinner and he could only imagine they’d get worse. The location of his apartment building was easy to remember, directly across from a large fountain infested with aged pennies and equally aged people if the hour was early enough, old couples who sat on the creaking benches and handed out shreds of bread to undeserving pigeons who dared to wander near. Junhui could never miss it if he tried.

It’s this same fountain he aims for again on the Wednesday after they meet for the first time. He gets a call from Jihoon over the weekend asking if he’ll come over to help make some bread. His voice carries over the phone the same way as in person but a little heavier, a little more gristle to the gravel, more sandpaper to the stone. The words fill Junhui’s ears more like a song than a question, and Junhui wonders if he sings much when he’s alone. Of course he’ll come help make the bread.

There’s a parking lot for the apartment complex in a garage the block behind, and Junhui cannot for the life of him remember which apartment Jihoon lives in, so he steals the space for 514 because he knows it’s wrong and blindly hopes 514 doesn’t have any friends on this particular evening. The sun is still up when he moseys his way to the building’s entrance, but not for long. It’s casting a hazy orange glaze over the entire city: the fountain, the birds, the elderly couples starting on their walk back home. He wishes he had his camera to catch the way the sky’s been dyed a vivid infinity, but he doesn’t, so he’ll just have to live with the regret.

Jihoon is standing in the lobby when Junhui gets there, perfectly angelic as he had been the first time Junhui laid eyes on him, silver glasses balanced on his nose, soft black turtleneck standing out against the creamy wallpaper, a stark contrast that would show up well on film. There might be something darkly ironic about calling him an angel, Junhui thinks, but his brain can’t come up with any word that makes a better fit. A wry smile pulls at Jihoon’s lips when he spots Junhui coming closer.

“Evening,” he says.

“Evening to you.”

They look at each other for a stiff moment before Jihoon says, “Care to come up?” and leads the way once he receives a nod in return.

“What’s your apartment number, by the way?” Junhui asks, following Jihoon into an elevator that smells like laundry and rubbing alcohol. Jihoon jams the 4 button with his knuckle to light it up.

“I live in 412.” He eyes Junhui curiously from overtop his frames. “Why?” Junhui breathes out a laugh.

“Not even close. I wasn’t sure, so I parked in 514’s guest spot.” Jihoon squawks out a single guffaw so unexpected it sets Junhui’s heart at a dead sprint and sends him back to ninth grade for the second time. He’s good at that, it seems.

“Five-fourteen has a terrible sound system that he never turns down. I know because I went up to check one night when it was keeping me up.” The doors slide open to grant a view of a drab hall that Jihoon leads them into with little enthusiasm. “You can steal his guest spot whenever you want. I don’t care.”

“He probably cares.”

“Well,” Jihoon twists the key as far to the right as it’ll go and rams the door open with his shoulder, sending the glasses a little closer to the tip of his nose with the force, “I don’t care if he cares.” Jun’s lips stretch into an accidental smirk as Jihoon ushers him inside.

Somehow, it’s a lot more homey than Junhui’s apartment is despite being less lived in, but maybe that can all be chalked up to the cabinets and countertops not all being that same exact medicinal gray that no amount of décor can bring to life. There are prints of photographs on the wall, large and dynamic shots of waterfalls and canyons, and the sofa is draped with a lively pastel blanket that would look much less out of place in a nursery than it does over the back of Jihoon’s black leather couch. Yet another startling contrast. Junhui needs to have more foresight next time.

Jihoon makes a beeline for the lone bag of groceries standing proud and resolute next to a bright yellow mug striped in black. Yeast, sugar, flour, salt, oil. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like they can all come together to form an actual loaf of bread, but Junhui’s never been much in the kitchen. He spots Jihoon poring over a recipe he’s taken the time to copy by hand onto notebook paper rather than print off directly from a computer and eases against the counter.

“So, is baking bread some dream you’ve always wanted to achieve, or are we just hanging out today and baking for no reason?” Jihoon snorts and glances up from his paper.

“That’s a very roundabout way to ask if this is something from my bucket list,” he muses, “but yes, it is.”

“Really? You’ve never made bread before?” Jihoon shrugs and pulls a pair of mixing bowls from a cabinet, bright green and clearly not very used.

“My family was never the kind that does that sort of thing with each other, and then when I got older, I never thought about it. But I’ve always wanted to try it, so I figured I may as well while I still can.”

“Speaking of, uh, while you still can,” Junhui coughs, awkward and unsure, “how long is that, exactly?” He tries not to be too obvious about tiptoeing around heavy words like “death,” but Jihoon’s eyes say he’s too sharp not to notice. Even so, he doesn’t mention it.

“The doctors don’t like to make projections so far out, but they think I’ve got a little more than a year left.” Not a beat passes before he’s pushing one of the bowls toward Junhui over the countertop. “Put warm water in here up to this line and then dissolve the yeast.”

Junhui follows obediently, ripping the package of yeast open and stirring with violent fervor once he’s filled the bowl with hot water more or less up to the line. He isn’t sure when the yeast is dissolved because he’s never dissolved yeast before, but Jihoon looks ready to go, so he offers the prepared yeast water hesitantly. His hesitation draws Jihoon forward, makes him narrow his eyes and push his face closer to the bowl. After a few tense moments of scrutiny, he turns his attention to Junhui.

“Is it dissolved?” he asks, wary.

“Does it look dissolved?”

Jihoon’s whole body moves with a shrug, hands quietly flying up in the air. “How should I know?” he groans. “I’ve never made bread before.”

“Neither have I!” Junhui cries. Jihoon’s jaw hangs loosely for a moment before he shuts it again in vague irritation.

“If you haven’t either, then why were you so shocked a minute ago that _I_ never have?” Junhui shrugs. There have always been a lot of things he’s never done that a lot of other people have, like get a degree or go to prom. Sometimes he has trouble distinguishing what they are. “Whatever,” Jihoon grumbles. “It’s probably fine. Just help me measure everything else out and put it together.”

For a while, it’s not seeming like it’ll shape up, and Junhui is concerned he’ll be solely responsible for Jihoon dying bitter and unfulfilled, but Jihoon swears on his soul that it’ll be fine as long as he keeps adding more flour, and slowly but surely, it starts to look like real, legitimate bread dough. Jihoon sprinkles flour over the countertop and flips the hunk of dough out of the bowl and onto its new home, the cold and unforgiving laminate plane of the counter.

“Knead that until it’s ‘elastic’ and ‘smooth,’” he instructs, taking the unused bowl in hand and looking over the recipe again. Junhui does as he’s told; the second he pushes his hands into the lump, he feels a worrying crack in each shoulder and has to restrain from emitting a strangled cry, but he toughs it out until the dough is on its way to getting where it needs to be even if his fingers feel borderline arthritic and close to snapping.

“Say,” Jihoon says after a while, eyes still glued to the solitary piece of paper held down to the counter by a bottle of canola oil, “do you think Pam counts as grease?” Something in Junhui’s elbow tenses up dangerously and forces his hands to still. This bread dough must be tougher than he thought, he convinces himself. He won’t let the thought that he’s starting to get too old into his head.

“What?” Junhui commands himself to resume kneading the dough despite the unnerving stiffness in his left hand. Still young and fresh, a voice in his head reminds him desperately. Still got that youthful energy. His wrists scream in protest, but he pretends he can’t hear them.

“It says to grease the bowl,” Jihoon explains, bottom lip caught between his teeth. With all his years of experience, Junhui should know by now not to stare, yet he somehow still finds himself so prone to doing it. Jihoon looks up abruptly and startles Junhui so badly that he slams his whole fist into the dough. “Do you think Pam counts as grease?”

“I guess,” Junhui muses, unsure and distracted. It occurs to him after a few more moments’ thought that there are probably better alternatives than Pam, but it’s too late. He hears the sound of the cap being popped off the canister and the subsequent sound of slick spray coating the inside of the bowl, and before too long, it’s resting just within his line of sight, a glowing exit sign at the end of a dark hallway.

Once Jihoon is satisfied with the way the dough looks, he transfers it from the floured countertop to the sprayed-down bowl and gives it a good turn until it’s nice and shiny. Junhui tries not to notice what a nice shape Jihoon’s hands have to them, but his eyes are trained to spot art in all its forms, can’t help but take note. They’re the kind of hands that look like they can do anything, the kind that beg to be held and to hold. Maybe if things were a little different, Junhui would have been able to hold them. He still wants to even though he knows he probably shouldn’t.

“Now we wait for it to rise,” Jihoon half recites and half reads from his little instruction sheet, draping a navy blue hand towel overtop the bowl. Everything in this apartment is so much more colorful than the dull grayscale assortment of Junhui’s things, and he doesn’t know why that should make him self-conscious, but it does.

Jihoon cracks his knuckles and leans back against the opposite counter, hands clasped over his stomach, a mass of knuckles and long fingernails. His body falls at an angle so smooth yet unpracticed, flawless yet natural, and something about how the light is hitting his hair and reflecting off the lenses in his glasses seems so otherworldly, Junhui can’t help but wonder if there have always been people this enchanting in the world and if he’ll ever be lucky enough to meet another one.

“I’d really like to shoot you sometime,” he blurts. A blush comes to him hard and fast, a burn so childish that it only embarrasses him more and positively feeds back on itself. It’s been a long time since Junhui’s really gone red in the face like that, but it’s been equally long since he accidentally rattled something off without thinking like that in front of someone his heart felt like doing a little extra beating for. “If you’re okay with it, I mean,” he remedies, or at least tries to, but Jihoon’s eyebrows have fallen into a flat line. His mouth creases tight, those prominent dimples showing themselves again, and Junhui may not have been able to finish _A Tale of Two Cities_ back in high school, but it had been a hell of a lot easier to read.

“Guess I’m just not dying fast enough for you, huh?” he asks, and Junhui spends 60 full seconds trying to understand what on earth he’s talking about before realizing that his vocabularic choice may not have been the best he’s ever made.

“Jesus,” he groans. The neighbors are likely to hear the sound of his palm smacking into his own forehead. “I didn’t mean… I meant with my _camera_.” His hands recreate the effect of holding a camera of their own volition, index finger wiggling madly to indicate he’s pressing the imaginary shutter button ad nauseum and taking an entire album’s worth of imaginary pictures. “You know, because I’m a photographer?”

Jihoon’s eyes widen only marginally before he snorts and drops his chin to his chest. “Sorry,” he says. The front end sounds like a genuine apology, and the tail end sounds more like halfhearted laughter. Junhui isn’t sure what a mixture of those is supposed to be, but he guesses whatever it is is all he’s getting from Jihoon. A part of him loves it. “I totally forgot about that.”

“God. I know maybe ‘shoot’ might not have been the _greatest_ word, but still…” Jihoon spares a glance his way, and when he does, his upper lip twitches its way almost to a grin.

“You can put the air camera away,” he says, and Junhui realizes with horror that he’s still got it out, enthusiastically tapping the nonexistent shutter button and probably filling up an entire fictional memory card. He shoves his senseless hands into their respective pockets, and Jihoon snorts again. It’s not a particularly nice sound, but somehow, Junhui still likes to hear it. Maybe it makes him feel like he’s doing something right. “Why do you want to photograph me, anyway?” Jihoon asks after a while. He might just be filling up dead space, but Junhui still hadn’t been expecting him to ask, and he’s always been bad with questions he wasn’t absolutely ready for.

“You know, I just, you’re really…” He takes a deep breath. Relax. “I think you would photograph really well.” The look on Jihoon’s face is hard to peg, but Junhui narrows it down to a mixture between surprise, disbelief, and doubt.

“Really?” he asks, and his tone is a little more telling, softly bewildered and a little incredulous. “I don’t think anyone’s taken a picture of me since I was in college.” And that explains the lack of pictures on his profile, but it’s also a damn shame to think there’s been a living marvel walking around out there for all these years and not one person has thought to preserve him with even a single picture. It’s a real tragedy, and it seems Junhui will have to take it upon himself to rectify it.

“I have an eye for these things,” Junhui assures him, and the way Jihoon offers a weak shrug of acknowledgement is just one more thing he wishes he could immortalize on film. He’ll never have enough time or space for every picture he needs to take. “Will you let me sometime?”

“Depends,” Jihoon hums. “Will it be for commercial use?”

“Of course not,” Junhui spouts immediately, then makes a hasty follow with, “Unless that’s one of your conditions, in which case it can be for commercial use.” Jihoon snorts again. The dough’s barely risen a hair, but Junhui is already hopelessly attached to that harsh sound.

“You’re a weird guy,” Jihoon informs him, and Junhui can tell he’d get along with Jeonghan spectacularly. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and taps his own skin with his nails in an irregular beat that still manages to be melodic. “But if you bring your camera, I guess I can’t stop you from taking pictures.” His gaze turns slightly sharper, left corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “As long as it’s not for commercial use.” Junhui feels his face contorting into a grin, and he wonders if Jihoon knows what he’s doing or is just dangerously alluring without realizing. Either way, it’s not very conducive to simple friendship.

The dough has to rise for an hour and a half, so they try to pass the time by talking. While Junhui’s hometown is further south than here, he learns Jihoon comes from quite a bit further north, so he doesn’t mind the cold so much even if it sinks into him like venom no matter how many layers he has on. He also wishes it would snow a little more like it used to when he was a kid, misses the way trees look when their branches are heavy with powder and surrounded by deep banks. Junhui thinks the snow is pretty, too, but it’s too hard to capture before there are footprints marring it everywhere and windshield scrapings tarnishing the natural slopes. He’d love a shot of Jihoon surrounded by falling flakes, and he hopes he’ll be able to get one sometime soon.

After half an hour, it gets a little more difficult to keep drawing the conversation out, so Jihoon starts playing music from his phone to fill the space instead, singing along enthusiastically and moving his hands along to the instrumental in a sort of miniscule dance. His voice is nice, smooth and sweet, but not really like one you would hear on the radio, and Junhui doesn’t know a single song he plays, but he thinks he likes them just the same. After nine songs, Junhui’s quirked eyebrow prompts Jihoon to confess he always wanted to be a singer when he was a kid.

“Why didn’t you do it, then?” Junhui asks. “You have a good voice.”

“Because it’s not a very lucrative career choice unless you’ve got everything nice and set up for you already,” he explains. Junhui can’t tell whether the tinge of bitterness he’s detecting is really there. “That whole ‘starving artist’ thing exists for a reason.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to live on unlivable wages against the high probability of never actually making it. Opportunity cost, I guess.” Something strikes Junhui right behind his ribs. He’s very familiar with opportunity costs.

“Well,” he begins, clearing his throat, “it’s still something you always wanted to do, right?” Jihoon eyes him skeptically. “Maybe we can knock it off your bucket list.” Jihoon guffaws without much mirth.

“Do you have a bunch of crazy connections you’re not telling me about?” he asks with a large huff and a crooked smile. “Unless you’re some kind of god or something, this one’s not getting knocked off before I kick it.” Junhui furrows his brow. “Why do _you_ look upset? It’s not a big deal. I’ve got plenty already to keep us busy.”

“If you say so,” he grumbles. Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“I say so. God.” He digs in a cabinet to find two loaf pans that don’t look like they’ve ever seen the light of day. He must not be much of a chef, either. “Spray these down with Pam so they’ll be ready when it’s time to put the dough in.” If Junhui were feeling a bit more combative, he’d point out that the Pam is much closer to Jihoon, but he decides he ought to take the compliant route to avoid making him more annoyed than he already seems and grabs the cooking spray instead.

It feels like an eon before the bread is finished rising, but even when it’s finished, it’s not finished. According to Jihoon’s carefully scribed instructions, it has to be split into two loaves and placed in the pans to rise for 45 more minutes. They each shape a loaf, and Junhui’s is much less smooth and attractive than Jihoon’s, but while Jihoon preheats the oven, he consoles himself with the fact they’ll more than likely turn out the same and places it in the pan all the same.

After another forever, the loaves can finally head into the oven, and there’s something about watching the bread bake up into something bigger and browner while they’re inside that makes the time pass more quickly. It’s slow and fast at the same time, like a time lapse of a butterfly’s life cycle—just sluggish enough to be frustrating, but still quick enough to hold attention. Junhui feels like the loaves look a little different every time he glances at them again through the oven door, but only by an amount so miniscule he’s half sure he’s just imagining it. It’s driving him nuts.

Jihoon puts on another playlist while they wait, a little gentler and more melancholy, and his voice sounds so right when he croons along to each word that Junhui thinks he’s falling in love, just a little bit. Even if he wants to but he knows he can’t, even if he refuses because nothing good will ever come out of it, he thinks he might be and he lets himself because Jihoon is still singing and his ears are still hearing and the entire world is a mess anyway. He lets himself because he has no choice and the bread still isn’t finished baking

Oven mitts sheath Jihoon’s arms past his elbows when the timer finally dings to tell them the bread is ready to come out, and Jihoon is still singing when he lifts each loaf from the oven and gently tips them out of their pans and onto a wire cooling rack Junhui was forced into erecting while they baked. They really do look like bona fide loaves, probably because they are, and Junhui would love to tear straight into one the second they’re free of their metal prisons, but Jihoon is very earnest in telling him he can’t.

“They’re fresh out of the oven,” he says, adamant, as he tugs the mitts off and tosses them back into the drawer they came from. “They still need to cool.” Junhui groans.

“Why does everything take so long?” he whines, and he feels like a child when he says it, but it’s already left his tongue. He heaves a sigh and rests his ear on the chilled countertop, gazing at the bread with longing eyes. “It smells so good.” Jihoon huffs, somewhere between irritation and humor.

“If you want to burn your mouth, feel free to eat it now,” he says, tapping the countertop with his index finger. “Besides, comparatively, it’s not that much of a time commitment.”

“Compared to what?” he asks incredulously even though he knows there are a great many things that fit the bill. Writing a book, getting a college degree, even working a lot of weddings. For him, doing his taxes. He shudders.

“Raising a child,” Jihoon says instead, and Junhui smashes his ear against the counter in surprise, raises up onto an elbow to level his eyes at Jihoon. “It takes eighteen years, and then you still have to keep track of them. Bread is much more condensed.” Junhui guesses that’s true and rolls it around in his head for a second. Something about the way Jihoon’s mouth is set feels different, but just like with slowly baking bread, he can’t tell if it’s all in his mind.

“Did you ever want to have kids?” he asks, and he thinks he sees a flicker of something in Jihoon’s eyes, thinks he wishes he could have seen a little more.

“Yeah, I did,” Jihoon admits softly, pulling his sleeves down over his hands and shoving them back up to his elbows again. “Just one or two, maybe, but like I said, it’s a big time commitment that I can’t really commit to.” Junhui feels something stir inside his chest, something small but painful, prickling tender spots and digging into the softest corners of himself. He gets it, even though he may not be in exactly the same boat, and he wishes they were in a different universe, one where they both have a little more luck. He’s sure there’s a theory somewhere that says a universe like that must exist. Jihoon gives him a bizarre half-smile. “Baking bread is kind of like raising a kid really fast anyway, so I’ll settle for it.” Junhui arches a brow, snaps himself back to reality.

“Maybe, if you eat the kid once they grow up,” he allows warily, eyes following Jihoon as he grins suspiciously and meanders back toward the fridge. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Three brief chuckles roll of Jihoon’s lips, right in a row, and it gives Junhui the new goal of eliciting four.

“To each their own,” is Jihoon’s only response. He pulls open the fridge door before Junhui has time to accuse him of vaguely endorsing cannibalism. “Do you want anything to drink?” he asks, but he hisses out the last word with alarming bite and jerks his arm back. Junhui shoots to his feet to see that the still hot loaf pans are sitting on the counter immediately beside the refrigerator, close enough to touch if you swing the door open. Close enough to burn yourself on if you aren’t careful.

“Shit,” Junhui breathes out, bolting over to Jihoon and yanking his arm under the sink faucet urgently. “Fuck.” He flips the tap to its coldest setting and switches it on full force. “Christ. Shit.” There’s a bright red line crossing the pale inside of his forearm, and the water isn’t dampening its hue at all. Junhui doesn’t know shit about burns. Will it scar? How bad does it hurt? Jihoon still hasn’t said anything. Is he in shock? “Fuck,” Junhui repeats again, and this time, Jihoon wheezes out a quiet laugh.

“You know,” he begins, and Junhui is suddenly aware of their nearness, the way he’s gripping Jihoon’s arm like he’ll die if he lets go, the comforting lavender scent wafting up from Jihoon’s hair, “you sure are swearing a lot considering I’m the one who burned myself.” He shifts a little, fractionally closer, and Junhui is on yet another trip to ninth grade.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just… Jesus. Does it hurt?”

“Not anything I can’t get over.” He pats Junhui’s hand with the intent of prompting its removal, but all it does is make him freeze up. Jihoon’s hands are more calloused than he expected. “Hey. Go get me a bandage. I keep them in the closet by the door.”

“Uh,” Junhui says intelligently, “okay. I’ll be right back.” He backs away cautiously, eyes on Jihoon like he might disintegrate. “Keep your arm under the water.”

“I know.”

Junhui has never run to get a bandaid so fast in his life, but he thinks he might be able to swing a ten-minute marathon when he sprints to retrieve it, thinks he might have been a very successful athlete in his youth if he ran like that all the time. He’s back with a box of bandaids in his hands almost before he realizes he left the kitchen, and Jihoon is still standing there with his arm in the sink, perfectly calm and placid as the water runs over his injury. Junhui fumbles with the box while he approaches, extracting a single bandaid and peeling its wrapper off carefully.

“I can put it on myself,” Jihoon informs him when he pulls his arm back to press the bandage down, but Junhui waves his hand dismissively and lays it flat anyway, doing his best to keep the tacky adhesive off the actual burn.

“Too late,” Junhui hums, patting it a few times to make sure it stays. Jihoon sighs.

“Thanks.”

They look into each other’s eyes after that for a great deal longer than they need to. Junhui isn’t sure whether he’s looking at something ordinary or something that’s not ordinary at all, whether Jihoon’s eyes are filled with a lot or empty of everything but just a little, but he does know no camera could ever capture whatever it is he does see, not the exact way he’s seeing it, not with any amount of lighting or a perfect angle. He thinks he can almost hear Jihoon singing still just by looking at the fluorescent bulbs reflected in his irises, and he thinks he might be letting himself fall in love just a little bit more, but it’s too soon to tell. Jihoon coughs and brings him back to earth.

“The bread might be cool enough to eat now, if you want to go slice it,” he says, and Junhui has a knife in hand before Jihoon can second guess himself.

It’s still more than just slightly warm, but it’s nowhere near burning territory, so Junhui divides it into the most even slices he can manage, though the majority of them have a gradient of thickness from one end to the other. He plates them hastily and selects the best two for himself and Jihoon to have as a reward for their hard work, taking a hesitant bite just in case his tongue isn’t ready for the temperature.

He doesn’t know if the bread tastes so good because he actually helped make it or if it’s just unbelievably good, but whatever the reason, he doesn’t think he’s ever had better bread in his life. From the look on Jihoon’s face, he probably feels the same way, and they both break into wide grins while they eat, Jihoon suppressing laughter while he nibbles on the crust.

“God,” he breathes, “I’m so relieved. I didn’t know what I was gonna do if it was terrible.” He wipes under his eye, sweeps away a tear that Junhui doesn’t believe was ever there. “God, I’m so lucky.”

Junhui thinks he’s lucky, too, but not just about the bread. He thinks he’s very lucky and also not lucky at all, thinks they could both stand to be a lot luckier. He thinks luck isn’t fair and there should be a way for it to be fairer, thinks luck being fair at all is probably lucky in itself. He thinks a lot of things about four leaf clovers and black cats and horseshoes, but none if it does him any good. For now, he’ll just enjoy the bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HELLO IT'S BEEN LONGER THAN INTENDED  
> i forgot to take into account when i posted the first chapter that i was about to be doing a fat assload of traveling and wouldn't have any time to work on chapter 2, so i apologize for the delay in posting this one!! hopefully future updates are more timely (don't kill me if they aren't)  
> thank you very much for reading! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and i hope to see you back for another sometime soon!  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and thank you once again for your time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at the Yoon household and a little winter fun.

As always, Junhui has done nothing to prompt Jeonghan to venture into his workspace and prevent him from accomplishing tasks, but he still finds Jeonghan doing nothing but while he sorts through a folder of a soon-to-graduate university student’s celebratory photos. He wonders if he would have looked so relieved in pictures like this of his own, wonders if he would have been able to make it that far even without the obstructions he had. They turned out wonderfully, but Junhui has a hard time appreciating it with Jeonghan leaning against his desk and giving him a nice, hard stare.

Rather than immediately stating his business like any decent person might, he sits quiet for a few seconds, cold eyes searching Junhui’s face. Somehow, Junhui can’t find the patience for him today. “Can I help you with something?” he asks, and he makes certain to weigh each word down heavily with the sentiment that he does not harbor desire to help Jeonghan with anything. That has never deterred Jeonghan before, and it doesn’t start now.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” he asks, managing to sound like he isn’t particularly concerned with whether Junhui is free or not. He taps his nails on the top of Junhui’s desk in an impatient staccato.

“As of now, I don’t have plans,” Junhui tells him, moving his mouse around aimlessly. “Why? Is Seokmin making lasagna?”

“No,” Jeonghan shoots immediately, eyes suspicious. He hesitates before continuing. “But he is making something,” when is he not, Junhui thinks, “and he wants you to come over.” A cough. “And bring your friend.”

“My friend?” Junhui asks, blank.

“You know who I’m talking about!” Jeonghan spits, clenching one hand into a fist and unclenching it, repeating over and over like it’ll help him focus. “You know. Jo… Jowon.” He watches Junhui’s expression carefully, a one-sided game of hot or cold. “Jaehyo. Jaeil. Jikwon.” Junhui’s lips quiver into a smirk.

“Jihoon?” he proposes, and Jeonghan snaps his fingers.

“Him!” he cries. “I knew you knew who I was talking about, you dick.” Of course Junhui knew—it’s not like he has other friends. All he wanted was to watch Jeonghan struggle to recall the name, and he was not disappointed. “Anyway, bring him with you.”

“Why didn’t you just make Seokmin call me?” Junhui wonders aloud. “He always does anyway, and he would’ve asked way more nicely.” Jeonghan heaves a sigh.

“Why does it matter?” he counters. “Just bring Jinkun.”

“Jihoon.”

“Right.” Junhui narrows his eyes.

“Let me guess,” he says, resting his chin in his hand and grinning. “Having me over for dinner is, just like always, Seokmin’s idea, but you’re the one who wants Jihoon to come, so you’re asking because you know Seokmin would forget to mention him.” The way Jeonghan’s chin twitches is more telling than he’d like it to be. Junhui’s grin grows wider. “Well, I’ll ask him, but he might be busy.” Jeonghan scoffs.

“He has dinner with you every day. I highly doubt he’s ever been busy in his life if he’s got that kind of free time to spend on you.”

“We do not have dinner together every day,” Junhui corrects with a huff, but Jeonghan is already leaving. Junhui grumbles while he attempts to return his focus to the graduation pictures on his screen.

They really don’t have dinner together every day; neither of them can cook anything substantial for two , and neither can afford to be dining out all the time, so it just isn’t possible. It is the case, though, that they have a meal together once or twice a week, has been the case for the past several weeks without actually being discussed. Usually it’s dinner, but there has been an occasional lunch, too, just for variety. He’s not even sure himself why they eat together so often, but he’s willing to let it become a habit.

The first time had been at Jihoon’s request, reason being that he felt bad for Junhui paying at their initial meeting and wanted to return the favor, and the next time had been at Junhui’s request, some new Thai place that opened that he wanted to try but only if he had someone with whom to try it, and after that, they just kept going, a bizarre little game of leapfrog. They probably are due for a dinner, but Junhui isn’t sure whether his desire for Jihoon to meet Seokmin outweighs his desire for Jihoon to never meet Jeonghan, so he won’t call just yet. He continues inspecting the photographs while he tries to make up his mind. They really are nice shots, and he wonders if Jihoon had graduation pictures taken when he was a senior in college and if they were this nice, if he looked this content in them, if he smiled quite as big. He’s sure they’re beautiful pictures regardless of expression.

By the time he gets home, Junhui has forgotten to think about calling at all, let alone actually make a call, but Jihoon remembers in his stead. The sound of the ringtone jars him out of a near-nap while he watches the news, and he answers it in a daze without checking who’s calling. Jihoon’s voice coming through the speakers is as effective as any smelling salt.

“Hey,” he says, and Junhui’s eyelids are no longer anywhere close to drooping. Something about the timbre of Jihoon’s voice makes it impossible for him to get distracted. “Are you willing to get dinner tomorrow night?” Jihoon should know by now that he’s always willing, but it’s charming that he still asks. “A new pizza place opened up a few blocks down that I’ve been wanting to try, but it feels like a waste to order a whole pie just for myself.” Junhui refuses to admit aloud how he thinks it’s cute that Jihoon calls a pizza a ‘pie’, but the thought creeps up on him whenever he’s not paying attention.

“Actually,” Junhui says with a sigh, and he wants nothing more than to say that he would love to try that pizza place, only the thorn of guilt in his gut won’t let him, “I have some friends who wanted me to have dinner with them, and they wanted to know if you would come, too.”

“Ah,” Jihoon says softly. The line goes silent after that, and Junhui can’t understand for the life of him why Jihoon won’t say anything else until he hears the hushed shake of suppressed laughter from the other end.

“What’s so funny?” Junhui asks, and he’d be prone to chuckling along if he were certain he was being laughed with and not at. As it stands, he’s very certain he’s being laughed at and not with.

“Nothing,” Jihoon chokes unconvincingly around a laugh.

“Oh, really?” Junhui asks, dry and frowning. “Am I just imagining the laughter, then?”

“No, sorry.” He’s finally starting to calm down. Junhui can just imagine him wiping a tear from under his eye. “I just didn’t think you had any other friends.”

“I see.”

“Don’t sound all bitter,” Jihoon scolds. “I’m within reason to think so.”

“In what way?” Junhui all but yells, belatedly remembering how close his mouth is to the microphone.

“You spend a hell of a lot of time with me for someone who supposedly has other friends.” Junhui groans. It’s fair.

“Well, I only have two,” he confesses, “and they’re married to each other.”

“Two’s more than zero,” Jihoon tells him, and as is typical, he’s unfortunately right.

“Actually,” he says, Jeonghan’s face flashing before his consciousness, “it’s more like one and a half.” He pauses to listen to Jihoon snicker. “Do you want to come?”

“Sure.”

Thus, they find themselves in Junhui’s car the following evening making the drive out to Seokmin and Jeonghan’s little townhouse. Junhui has never understood why they live so far out of town when Jeonghan works dead in the center, but it probably has something to do with comfort and Seokmin’s affinity for the tiny herb garden he likes to grow on their concrete rectangle of backyard space. Maybe the only reason he thinks the half hour drive is excruciatingly long is that his commute to the office is only five minutes. Jihoon would probably say it isn’t very long at all compared to some other things, and once again, he would be correct.

“I’ll just warn you now,” Junhui begins as they wind down the last few roads before the complex, “Seokmin can be pretty loud, but I promise he’s a great guy. Jeonghan is…” He sighs. “Well, you two might get along fine.”

“Why do you say that?” Jihoon asks with a smirk.

“You’ll see.”

Jihoon sings along to the final song that plays on the radio while Junhui makes the last turn and slides cleanly into an empty spot, some upbeat melancholy pop song that sounds distinctly more so when Jihoon sings it. The air is biting when they get out of the car, the kind that leaves frost behind and makes you almost wish it would just snow already. Junhui shivers in his jacket, and while Jihoon looks perfectly content to be walking around in the chill, his hands are probably ice after just a few seconds. They stay too deeply stuffed into his pockets for Junhui to think for even a second about holding them.

It’s clear that Seokmin is home from the moment they reach the doorstep because Junhui can hear him singing from inside. Junhui’s always thought he has a wonderful voice, albeit a little piercing at times, and he won’t tell Jeonghan this, but he’s incredibly jealous he gets to listen to Seokmin sing while he does menial chores around the house. Right now, he’s probably singing while he cooks. When Junhui presses the doorbell and hears the singing stop, he’s sure Jeonghan is making Seokmin get the door even though he’s probably doing nothing himself.

“Junhui!” Seokmin yodels with gusto once he opens the door, pulling Junhui into a tight hug. Right on the mark. “It’s been so long!” He pushes Junhui back to arm’s length and levels his gaze, smile glittering and pushing his eyes into gleeful crescents. If only he could have been the sole friend Junhui made in college. “And you must be Jihoon, right?” Seokmin continues, turning to Jihoon and extending a hand. “I’m Seokmin. It’s good to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you,” Jihoon mutters back brusquely, taking the hand offered to him. Judging by the way Seokmin’s eyes widen marginally and he sucks in a breath through his nose, Jihoon’s hands are exactly as cold as Junhui suspected.

“You’re so cold!” he hollers bluntly, stepping aside with so much haste he almost trips on the rug. “Hurry and come inside. I’m almost finished with dinner, but Jeonghan is in the living room if you want to see him.”

“I have never in my life wanted to see Jeonghan,” Junhui tells him, shrugging off his coat, and Seokmin bellows out a boisterous laugh as he waddles back to the kitchen, readjusting the strings of his apron.

As expected, Jeonghan is lazing on the couch and doing nothing but leafing through a magazine at a snail’s crawl, eyes lingering on every page for far too long to be actually reading. He barely spares a glance away when they walk into the room, just turns another page with lethargic hands and stares at the new content with glassy eyes that overflow with boredom. It’s only when Junhui coughs, very loud and very aggressive, that he actually tears his attention from the publication in his hands.

He must have forgotten he asked Junhui to bring Jihoon, because his face brightens impossibly once he notices him, lips spreading into one of his most charming smiles, the exact same kind he’d used to make amends with Junhui after ruining his backpack, only a little less youthful and glowing this time. Without an ounce of hesitation, he abandons the magazine on the crooked ottoman at his feet and springs off the couch to greet them, them in this case being only Jihoon with a single sarcastic nod in Junhui’s direction. Friendship is so very delicate and complex.

“It’s so great to meet you,” he gushes as sincerely as he can, but Junhui’s known him too long not to be able to tell he’s forcing it a little. Jihoon has sharp eyes, looks like he’s not quite buying it either, eyebrows lowered suspiciously over a cutting gaze that glitters even while he takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand.

The context of a cutting gaze is probably not ideal for Junhui to notice what pretty eyes he’s got, neat rows of lashes sweeping under dark irises and over dark circles, a small freckle standing out shyly just beside his left eye, but it is when he notices nonetheless. He’s never been much a fan of his own freckles, but he adores them on other people, or maybe it’s just that he adores this particular freckle on this particular person. Whatever the case is, Jeonghan is giving him a look, which means he must be staring, so he’ll have to think about it some other time.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Jihoon says carefully, thoughtfully, squeezing Jeonghan’s mass of fingers before letting his hand fall back to his side. “I guess you’re Jeonghan.”

“Yes,” he caws, “and you’re Ji _hoon_.” He puts heavy stress on the second syllable, stress that says he’s worked so hard to remember it and will be damned if he lets that effort go unrecognized. He’s so bad with names—he’d called Junhui the wrong name for two months when they first met—and a gentle part of Junhui is willing to appreciate that he’s trying. “Junhui never tells us anything about you,” he spits bitterly, “so I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“I guess that’s fair, since he never told me anything about you either.” His lips crack in a sideways smile. “I didn’t think he had any other friends.” Jeonghan grins back.

“Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Very.” Junhui holds back a sigh. Just like he predicted, they’re getting along. He really is right about every single thing these days. Maybe he should get a side job as a psychic.

“Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” Jeonghan asks amiably. “I’ll get you something to drink.” Jihoon is happy to take him up on it.

Dinner is stir fried vegetables and chicken that smells delectable alongside a heaping side of rice because Seokmin always gets too excited making it and doesn’t know how to control portions. Junhui stares at the mountain of grains nervously. He can put up with rice, sure, but it’s not his favorite part of any meal, and he’s certainly not jazzed about having to ingest an entire small country’s worth of it. If only Seokmin hadn’t insisted on preparing their plates for them, he thinks, he could have saved himself the suffering. Jihoon’s fingers tap against Junhui’s wrist and shock him out of mourning.

“Do you want me to take some of your rice?” he asks quietly, and for a moment, Junhui believes he is hallucinating. He remembers mentioning it offhand once, blurting from behind a forkful of corn that he doesn’t like rice much, but he has to be imagining that Jihoon remembers it. Why does he look so sympathetic? Junhui feels like a baby.

“Huh?” he responds eloquently. Jihoon rolls his eyes. That’s more like it.

“You take some of my vegetables,” he reasons, “and I’ll take some of your rice. I know you don’t want it.” Junhui looks between Jihoon and his plate uncertainly, and he can feel two sets of eyes on him from across the table while he does. “It’s a win for both of us. Just pass me your plate.” Unaided by his own conscious will, his arm pushes the plate across the mossy green tablecloth, and Jihoon is hard at work reapportioning the meals before he can have a change of heart.

The plate returns to him with a much more manageable serving of rice and a great deal more green. “Are you sure you don’t want the vegetables?” Junhui asks warily. “They’re good for you.” Jihoon snorts, rough as always, charming as always.

“Frankly,” he begins, gathering a substantial mouthful of rice, “I am not very concerned with what’s good for me.” There is no point in arguing, Junhui guesses, since that’s fair enough, but he wishes Jihoon would eat his vegetables anyway. That much rice is a recipe for a stomachache.

Jihoon does get a stomachache, but only after a very long dinner of very many questions and very much uncomfortable staring. Jeonghan asks him what he does for a living, and Jihoon tells him he bangs his fingers on a keyboard and hopes for the best, and Seokmin asks him what he likes to do in his free time, and Jihoon tells him he spends most of his free time with Junhui lately, but before that, he didn’t really do much. Then Jeonghan and Seokmin both look back and forth between the pair of them quietly before diving back in awkwardly with more questions. It’s a wall of one-way glass short of an interrogation, and Junhui is fit to cry once it’s finally over, only Jihoon is wailing from the passenger’s seat about his stomach, so Junhui instead has to gripe at him for eating too much rice and not enough vegetables.

“I did you a favor,” Jihoon hisses, glaring out the window. “You looked like you were going to cry just _looking_ at all of it.”

“I’m a grown man!” Junhui bellows, grip on the steering wheel needlessly tense. “You didn’t have to take so much!”

“Whatever,” Jihoon scoffs. “Just buy me some Tums or something and we’ll call it even.” Junhui squints at the road, failing to see how he has come up owing Jihoon anything in this situation, but without any convincing, he stops at the next CVS they see and buys some anyway.

“So,” Jeonghan begins the following morning at work, and judging strictly off the tone, Junhui already does not like the rest of the words that are going to be attached to that, “you and Jihoon are just pals? Friends? Buds?”

“You know,” Junhui says, monotone, staring at the pictures on his screen Jeonghan is once again barring him from devoting his full attention to, “you become intensely more annoying each day I am forced to be around you.”

“We both know you don’t mean that,” Jeonghan tuts, expression betraying just a hint of hurt. “You’re just avoiding the question. Like an ass.”

“What was the question, again?”

“You and Jihoon,” Jeonghan states. Junhui waits for the rest of it so very patiently, but he is not rewarded.

“I hate to break this to you, but that’s not a question.”

“You _know_ the question,” he groans impatiently.

“I don’t,” Junhui insists, “and if you’re not gonna actually ask it, please leave.” Jeonghan groans again.

“You guys _are_ actually, like, in a romantic relationship,” he asserts, drawing Junhui’s eyebrow higher. “Don’t give me that look. I know you’re trying to fool me for some reason I can’t even think of, but you won’t.”

“Maybe you can’t think of a reason because there isn’t one,” Junhui proposes, leaning onto his elbow. “I have no idea why you think I’m trying to fool you. You’re just wrong, buddy.”

“Bullshit, am I wrong. I have eyes.” He gestures violently to the mentioned eyes just to make Junhui acutely aware he is not lying. “He ate your rice for you. Friends don’t do that.”

“Just because you specifically wouldn’t eat my rice for me doesn’t mean that’s not something friends would do for each other. Besides,” he scoffs at the recollection, “he made me buy stomach medicine for him even though I _knew_ he took too much rice, which is exactly something you would do.” Jeonghan watches him silently for a few more seconds.

“Sure,” he says dubiously, followed by a quick, “You’re not fooling anyone!” as he rounds the corner back to his own desk. If Junhui were half as obnoxious a person as Jeonghan is, he’d get up and follow him to argue, but as he lacks the energy, he stays at his desk to stare at the pictures on his screen. Pictures. That’s right. He needs to remember to bring his camera next time he sees Jihoon.

Remember he does, little black case perched neatly in the passenger’s seat when he heads over to pick up Jihoon the following Monday evening. Today, they’re going ice skating, which Junhui figures must be another bucket list item since they usually just have dinner and Jihoon was the one who brought it up, and it’s certainly cold enough for the outdoor rink to be frozen, impossibly colder than it had been when they first met. Junhui hopes Jihoon is wearing thick gloves because he really doesn’t want to give his up, but he’d prefer having cold hands to knowing Jihoon’s are practically frostbitten.

After a short spell of peacefully idling in 514’s guest spot, which never seems to see any actual guests for 514, a hand clad in a dark blue mitten slaps the glass of the passenger side window with a brutal smack and makes Junhui elbow the horn in surprise. He looks toward the disturbance to find Jihoon collapsing against the vehicle in laughter, struggling to get the door open with no adequate grip. He’s still cackling once he finally gets it open, loud peals of laughter echoing inside the vehicle while he hefts Junhui’s camera and sits down where it had been. Junhui just stares on, unamused, while he leans his head against the back of the seat and keeps going; for a while, it seems like he won’t stop at all, but once he’s started wiping tears from his beneath his eyes, he begins calming down, and eventually, there’s nothing but the occasional pleased chuckle slipping through his lips.

“That was not that funny,” he grumbles while he backs out, making sure Jihoon has his camera safely cradled on his lap.

“It was hilarious,” Jihoon says, followed by another endearing snort, which by now Junhui has stopped trying to fight the urge to be fond of. He pats the case resting on his thighs like he’s noticing it for the first time. “What’s this? Your camera?”

“I remembered it today,” Junhui tells him proudly. He takes a glance at Jihoon, notes his navy blue mittens and that same burgundy coat, the neck of a thick cream turtleneck creeping up to his chin, a wool hat that matches his mittens pulled down over his ears. “I think the pictures will turn out well,” he says with an assured smile.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Jihoon muses, tapping his fingertips on the case in time with the song on the radio. It’s a quick beat, but he keeps up in perfect time, changes rhythm to match the pattern of the drums the second it changes. He must like this song. “I’ll probably fall down a lot.” A thought occurs to him that stills his fingers. “Are you planning on taking this on the rink with you? What if you fall?”

“I won’t fall,” Junhui scoffs. “I used to skate circles around the masses back in the day.”

“Oh, really?” His tone shifts and suddenly he’s amused, so smug and so very amused. “When’s the last time you actually went ice skating?”

“When I…” Junhui fishes for a time. “When I was 30.”

“Liar,” Jihoon spits without a second of consideration. “Tell me the truth.” Junhui sighs.

“When I was in college,” he says through gritted teeth.

“When you were what?” Jihoon sings. Junhui looks over and he’s grinning like an asshole with a hand cupped around his ear, eyebrows raised. He definitely heard.

“When I was _in college_.”

“College, you say?” he inquires. “Which you only attended one year of? Meaning it has been _at least twelve years_ since the last time you went ice skating?” He guffaws once. “We’ll see who doesn’t fall. I bet I’m a natural.” Junhui grumbles a few unsavory words under his breath while he navigates the rest of the route.

The frigid air is still intensely bitter when they finally reach their destination, and the rink is absolutely swarmed with people of all ages, young parents with bumbling tots who can’t quite get themselves to let go, elderly couples who ghost around the edge with slow paces and warm smiles. Junhui and Jihoon fall somewhere in between and also somewhere outside the gradient entirely, seasoned and weary but still shaking like newborn deer, two separate entities that sometimes look like one. They rent their skates from a bored-looking teenager standing by at a booth and waddle over to the first bench they see that’s not overrun by a small family.

“How do, uh,” Jihoon begins unsteadily, sticking his foot in the skate and furrowing his brow, “how do you… fasten it?” Junhui takes one look at the unclasped buckles and snorts.

“Give me one second and I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to do it,” Jihoon mutters softly, but he makes no move to figure it out or do it himself, so Junhui quickly tightens his own skates and, in a fleeting stroke of genius, pulls out his camera. Jihoon is too distracted by the clunky skates on his feet to notice Junhui taking aim for the shot, and what Junhui sees through the viewfinder is nothing short of a miracle.

The silver frames of his glasses sit delicately near the tip of his nose, lenses occasionally fogging at the bottoms where the breath condensing in puffs from his lips makes contact. His eyes are downcast, intent on the foreign footwear, and the way the late afternoon light rolls down the slopes of his face can’t be anything but Junhui’s entire life’s worth of luck rolled into a single moment. He takes in a stabilizing breath, lines his vision up, and snaps the picture.

It’s the click of the shutter that grabs Jihoon’s attention. He whips his head around immediately, blinking slowly when he sees the camera in Junhui’s hands and realization starts to catch up with him. “Did you just take a picture of me?” he asks, bewildered, and Junhui avoids answering by kneeling down to buckle his skates up, lopsided grin dancing on his lips. “You’re such a strange guy,” Jihoon sighs wistfully. The last buckle tightens with a loud snap that draws Jihoon’s attention back to his feet. “Thanks.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been ice skating,” Junhui confesses, still kneeling on the concrete. The cold is eking into his knee, but he likes the view too much to stand back up. “You’re from further north than I am. You should have gone all the time growing up.” Jihoon shrugs.

“There was a little rink we used to pass on the way from our house to my middle school,” he says, tugging at the bottoms of his mittens, and the image of a middle school Jihoon gazing longingly out a car window is too much for Junhui to handle. “I always wanted to go, but my parents would never take me, and then I moved out to go to college and didn’t know where to find one, and then I got too old to be comfortable going by myself.” He scratches his chin. “Well, I guess I probably never would’ve been comfortable going by myself. Anyway, this rink is a lot bigger than that one, but I guess it works.”

“Need any help standing up?” Junhui asks when he rises to his full height, extending a hand only to have Jihoon swat it away in irritation.

“I’m a grown man,” he grumbles, irate, and heaves himself off the bench. The moment he’s on his own two feet, he nearly falls back off them, and Junhui accidentally lets a single loud laugh out that catches the attention of several people nearby. Jihoon fixes Junhui with a cold glare while he loops the camera’s strap around his neck. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I know bullshit when I smell it, Junhui.” And then he stalks off toward the closest entrance, every other step worryingly shaky. Junhui follows with a bright smile.

“You’re going to fall,” he chirps.

“We’ll see,” Jihoon says, and they take to the ice.

Admittedly, it has been a very, very long time since Junhui has tried to balance his entire body weight on two thin sheets of blade, and this is how he consoles himself forty-five minutes later as he clings to the dubiously rigid fence circling the rink with a breathless desperation. Walking on the concrete had been a piece of cake, but a giant sheet of ice has so much less traction; he doesn’t know how he used to be able to do this, but he blames his knees for everything. He fell on his ass twice within the first four minutes they were on it, and Jihoon laughed so hard he fell down right next to him. Junhui laughed so hard at Jihoon falling that he couldn’t stand back up. A vicious cycle.

Of course, Jihoon isn’t faring much better. He is not a natural like he predicted he would be, and he stands equally breathless and desperate against a different length of fence twenty feet back, knees wobbly and cheeks rosy. Junhui had ditched him in a short burst of recalled skill right before almost taking a bite out of the ice and resigning to his new life as a wall clinger, and Jihoon is still trying to get past a horde of children and catch back up while he’s out of commission, though he’s not having much success.

By now, the sun has started to fall a little lower in the sky, and everything is tinted by a soft orange pallor filtering through splotches in the blanket of clouds overhead. Junhui is realizing he’s done a lot more falling and a lot less photographing than he originally planned on, so he brings his camera back to his eye and aims it carefully at Jihoon’s distant and gradually advancing figure. Once again, he sees the universe through the lens, everything he could want from a picture and somehow more. He takes photograph after photograph while Jihoon approaches, culminating in the finale, a very near shot of his face sporting an unduly proud grin for someone whose coat is covered in scraped-up ice after falling down so many times. A few snowflakes that have started to fall stick to his eyelashes as well, and Junhui wonders again how someone so marvelous has escaped every camera lens in the world for so many years.

Jihoon grabs Junhui’s wrist with brute force, whips him around to face the closest exit, and Junhui can feel the cold from his hand even through two layers of buffer. “Since you’re so amazing at ice skating,” he begins sinisterly, “get us over to that exit so we can leave. I think I’m starting to get blisters.”

“But we haven’t even been here that long!” Junhui protests despite his own oncoming blisters. “I paid $20 to rent these skates!”

“My feet hurt,” Jihoon grumbles, “and it’s starting to get dark and I can’t feel my hands and I’m hungry. I can whine more, so you better get a move on.”

Reluctantly, Junhui starts hobbling toward the exit, Jihoon close at his back. The sky grows darker with each labored stride they take, and by the time they get the skates turned back in and change into their regular shoes, it’s pitch dark and snowflakes are coming down less sparsely. Jihoon gripes about his blisters the entire walk back to the car and the entire ride back to the apartment, and Junhui is starting to get tired of it by the time he goes to pull into 514’s guest spot, but he gets distracted by the presence of an actual car that belongs to somebody else preventing him from parking there. In his surprise, Jihoon even stops complaining, and the car goes silent as they coast toward the guest spot for 412.

“Let me know if you want to have dinner soon or anything,” he says when he puts the car in park. Though he waits, Jihoon makes no move to exit the vehicle. After a long spell of silence, he sighs.

“Since you’re parked in my guest spot, you may as well come in,” he says, and he sounds like he’s not keen on inviting him inside in the first place, but if he didn’t want to, why would he? “I’ll feed you dinner.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He sighs. Twice. Three times. “Jesus, yeah. Get out of the car before I change my mind.” Junhui doesn’t need to be told twice before he snatches up his camera and follows in.

Jihoon whines again the entire elevator ride, God, the blisters hurt so bad, and he’ll never forgive Junhui for this even though it was his idea to begin with. He demands bandaids the second they arrive at the apartment, sinking down onto the couch while Junhui is forced to fetch them.

He turns the light on to take a closer look, and they really are horrible, ugly red welts at his heels that his regular shoes must have rubbed even rawer. Junhui can’t believe he walked as much as he did with them and only complained instead of crying. The breath he sucks in through his teeth at the sight is more an instinct than a conscious choice, and Jihoon looks at him curiously from above his knees.

“Are they bad?” he asks, though Junhui isn’t sure why. He can probably feel exactly how terrible they are.

“They’re awful.” He pulls one of the largest bandages out of its plastic sleeve and presses it down over one of the sores. Jihoon sighs.

“Why is it that I always sustain injuries when we’re together?” he wonders mournfully. Junhui puts on the next bandaid. He’ll probably end up having to buy Jihoon another box.

“Sorry,” he says as genuinely as he can manage. For a while, the only noise is the sound of the heat buzzing its way throughout the apartment, accented by the occasional rip of a bandaid off a waxy sheet. It’s crushing Junhui’s eardrums. “Do you regret it?” he asks at last.

“Regret what?”

“Going ice skating.”

“Why, because I got blisters?” He claws at the idea hanging in the air, tears it to shreds and lets it float off on the wind. “No. I still always wanted to do it, and now I’ve done it. I’m glad we went.”

“If you say so.” Jihoon kicks forward violently without warning, very narrowly missing Junhui’s face. His heart speeds up so rapidly he thinks it might quit beating altogether.

“You love to say that,” he says, brimming with vague anger. Junhui can’t pinpoint the source. “I _do_ say so. Stop acting like I’m just lying for your sake.”

“Fine, fine. I get it. You’re an honest man.” He flattens the final bandage over Jihoon’s heal and presses it down gently, a halfhearted massage around his ankle. “So, speaking honestly, are you actually going to give me dinner?”

“Ah, yeah.” He picks up his phone and starts scrolling through it frantically, number after number rolling by in his pupils. “I don’t have anything here, but I thought I could call that pizza place I mentioned the other day and order us a pie.” His eyes flit to Junhui for a moment before retreating back to his screen. “You did pay for the skates, so I owe you.”

“You know, I think it’s cute that you call it a pie,” Junhui thinks about saying, then decides not to say, then says anyway. Jihoon’s expression says nothing and everything.

“Everybody calls it a pie,” is his only response, and it clearly isn’t the truth, but he lifts the phone to his ear before Junhui finds the energy to argue. “Is cheese okay?”

Just after the pizza delivery guy has taken Jihoon’s money and fled, the snow picks up monstrously, flurries of large flakes cascading past the window and piling up on the ground four stories below, dyeing everything a crisp white that shines despite the darkness. Jihoon chews on a length of crust while he watches it fall, opulent and stoic. Some of the shadows filtering through the window dapple his face in the strangest pattern Junhui’s ever seen.

“Do you have to go into your office tomorrow?” he asks with no precursor, crust still pressed to his lips.

“I don’t really have to go into the office ever,” Junhui tells him, “it’s just easier to get work done there.” Or would be if Jeonghan wasn’t so obnoxious, but he mainly likes the thought of sitting at his own desk with a name card on it, even if nobody ever reads the stupid name card. Jihoon nods slowly. “Why?”

“The roads are looking pretty bad. You should stay here.” He spares a glance Junhui’s way. “My couch is pretty comfortable. I had to sleep on it before the mattress got here.”

“Alright.” Jihoon nods again.

“Wow,” he says softly, lips barely parted. “It’s really coming down.”

The sight in front of him is nothing Junhui wants to capture on his camera. It is beautiful, the way the falling snow outside traces shadows over Jihoon’s skin, the way his eyes feed back to the strange pinkish tint of the horizon, the way his profile stands out so strikingly against the mundane backdrop of a dim apartment. Junhui has never laid eyes on anything so gorgeous, and yet he would feel so wrong to have a picture of it. He wants it for his eyes to see and his brain to know and nothing else, an ethereal frame of beauty frozen in time and lost to the masses. Jihoon hums as he continues to watch the city don its ivory coat, low and deep, a single melodic tone that stirs something in the catacombs of his chest. There is no ice, but Junhui is falling again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd just like to say i'm so sorry for being a big fat shithead about updating this but i promise i will try to be better. classes just started back but hopefully i can deliver regular updates so nobody is getting all grumpy waiting around for me to stop being so terrible  
> anyhow   
> thank you for reading this chapter! i hope you liked it, and i hope i'll see you back again for the next one!! thank you to everyone who's read so far. let's get through this together  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! see you next time!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jihoon gets inked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if it really counts but for anyone who's got an issue with needles, needles are mentioned several times toward the end of the chapter! nobody gets like shots or anything but just something to be looking out for

When Junhui was a child, his bedroom ceiling had been littered with those little star stickers that glow in the dark, enough to make it look like a real night sky to his kid brain, a rural starscape free of light pollution and buildings and overcast clouds. It’s been at least twenty years since those stars were there—his mom peeled them all off when they started to lose their glow—but he still remembers how he used to count them every night while he was trying to fall asleep, still remembers how there were exactly ninety-six and how he only made it all the way to the end three times, still remembers how that dim greenish luminescence had felt like home and calmed him down while he lay in bed waiting for dreams to take him. Even now, he still imagines them sometimes on the ceiling of the bedroom in his own apartment. He won’t go so far as to buy any to decorate it with, but he does occasionally find himself staring at the ceiling and counting up to ninety-six and no further when his thoughts are keeping him awake.

He’s thinking about those little stars when he wakes up, and it takes him a solid few minutes to realize that this isn’t his life. The ceiling doesn’t look quite like what he’s used to, and he can hear the sound of someone else moving around in the kitchen, getting ready for the day. Somehow, he’s comfortable even on a couch, but this is not his life. There are no little stars on the ceiling to guide him, and he will never be in a place where his life is like this. He rubs the sleep out of his face.

“Morning,” Jihoon says when he walks over to find Junhui’s eyes open. He’s slowly working his way up the buttons of the dress shirt he has on over an undershirt that’s too thin and dips too far down on his chest. Junhui never thought about seeing Jihoon’s collar bones or even wanting to see them, but he’s certainly seeing them now. All his body knows how to do is choke on spit and look away quickly. “Sleep well?”

“This couch is pretty comfortable,” he confesses, patting the cushion beside him, and Jihoon closes up another button with a dry laugh. Only three more buttons, it looks like, until Junhui can relax. He’ll make it.

“I told you.” He makes his way through the last few buttons without walking away again, slings a tie around his neck just when Junhui finally thinks he can breathe and starts pulling it through those intricate loops for a full Windsor. Junhui was never any good at tying ties since he never had to wear them, and watching Jihoon tie his fills him with a bizarre mix between awe and longing. He notices not for the first time that Jihoon has very nice hands he’d much like to hold if the opportunity were to present itself.

“Are you going to work?” he asks, because he’s just realized it’s very strange for someone who isn’t going to work to put on dress slacks and a tie, and Jihoon nods glumly, eyes drooping.

“Unfortunately,” he says. “For Stills and Fern, there is no such thing as inclement weather.” A sigh. “The roads are mostly plowed, though, so the buses are running, which means I should make it fine.” He pulls his tie through the final loop, clean and straight. The knot looks perfect, photogenic. He must have been tying ties for a very long time. “I’ll probably head out soon.”

Junhui grabs his phone to check the time, gawks when he sees it. 6:14 in the morning. No wonder the only light is coming from the overhead in the kitchen. He hasn’t been up anywhere near this time in a while due to the flexibility of his hours at the office and the typical appointment being scheduled much later. While he squints at the screen, the date catches his eye: Tuesday, November 24th, represented by a nice 11/24. Rusty cogs in his brain turn with tremendous effort, desperate to figure out why that number seems like something close to something they should know.

“Jihoon,” he begins, hushed, glancing up from his phone screen to where Jihoon stands above him, intently cleaning the lenses of his glasses. “Does the 1122 in leehoon1122 stand for your birthday?”

“Yeah,” he answers without looking away, rubbing with vigor at an especially bad smudge. “November 22nd.” Junhui bolts upright and slams his fist down on the arm of the sofa.

“So it was on Sunday? And you didn’t tell me?” Jihoon balances the frames on his nose and finally spares a glance in Junhui’s direction, lips quirked in an unusual smile.

“I figured the 1122 was pretty self-explanatory,” he reasons, “like how the 610 in your username means your birthday is June 10th.” Junhui frowns. “Why are you pouting?”

“I don’t know,” Junhui huffs. “I feel like I should have bought you dinner or something.”

“That’s fine, actually, because I’ve got something else in mind,” he says with a grin and checks his watch, walks away from Junhui and back into the kitchen. “Do you think you’ll go into your office today?”

“If the roads aren’t too bad, I probably will. Why?”

“You’re free to stick around here until I get off work,” Jihoon tells him, “but if you don’t, would you come back later?”

“Sure.” Junhui watches Jihoon pour an entire pot of coffee into a bright blue thermos and screw the cap on without a single drop of cream or granule of sugar. “What for?”

“You’ll see.” The tone of his voice is a little mischievous and almost inviting, makes Junhui lean forward to chase him as he backs toward the door with haste. “If you leave, the spare key is on top of the fridge. Just slide it back under the door after you lock it.” He nudges the door open with his elbow and offers a single nod before he lets it close behind him. “Bye.”

Junhui can’t find the energy to do anything but sit on the couch for a while, and when at last he does, he uses it to wander over to the window and inspect the roads. They don’t look great, but they look good enough to protect him from the intimacy of staying in someone’s house when they aren’t home, the crushing weight of being an intruder with an invitation. Staying in Jihoon’s apartment while he’s not there feels like standing in his skin while his soul is out for lunch; the thought is absurd and unthinkable, makes him want to explode. He makes extra sure to slide the spare key back under the door once he’s got it locked.

When he gets to work, the first thing Junhui does is check his schedule for the week. He’s got a lot of appointments, every day until Saturday with two on Thursday, which means a lot of editing and reviewing to do next week, and he lets out an accidental groan at just the thought. The groan comes out louder than he intends, which grabs Jeonghan’s ever easily-grabbed attention and draws him over to Junhui’s desk. He gives Junhui a quick once-over upon arrival and stops dead in his tracks, narrows his eyes, opens his mouth and closes it right back up like he isn’t sure what to ask. Thusly, the second thing Junhui does is remember that he’s still in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday.

The third thing he does is wonder what on earth Jihoon wants him to come back for, what in this universe he could possibly need Junhui to do to make up for missing his birthday. His fourth task is wondering if he might be starting to fall in love with Jihoon just a little bit, followed very shortly by item number five, which is ignoring that fourth thing. And then Jeonghan comes back, and Junhui is too frustrated to put up with him today and forces him back out, and then he loses track of what he has and hasn’t done since he walked into this office. He spots the reflection of his neck in the corner of his computer screen and wonders how much better he’d look if he were to put a tie around it.

Before heading back to Jihoon’s in the evening, he stops by his own apartment to change into some clothes that haven’t overstayed their welcome. Walking back into his own apartment is such a strange feeling after sleeping somewhere else, like he gave up his identity for a single night to be someone else entirely. The walls stare at him like a stranger, ceiling glitters with imagined stars, floors groan beneath unfamiliar soles. He wishes this apartment felt more like a home after all the time he’s spent here, but sometimes, times like now, he still feels like a guest just passing through.

Jihoon’s clothes are casual again when Junhui returns, dark wash jeans and a light pink sweater that looks mysteriously wonderful against his skin. He fiddles with the sleeves while he talks, and it distracts Junhui from his explanation. “There’s this tattoo parlor in the next town over,” he begins once they walk into his apartment, hiding his knuckles with the cuff of his sleeve. The apartment looks exactly like it had when Junhui left earlier, and he isn’t quite sure why he’d been expecting something to change. “I wanted to go so we could make an appointment for sometime soon.” Junhui’s brain is quicksand, and meaning is slow to sink in.

“You want to get a tattoo?” he asks at length. Surprise comes through more sharply than intended.

“Why are you so shocked?” Jihoon grunts roughly, shoving his sleeves back up to his elbows. “It’s not like I’m eleven or something. I’ve always wanted to get one.” Junhui shrugs, eyes still crawling over Jihoon’s face.

“I can’t really tell if I’m more surprised that you want a tattoo or that you don’t already have one,” he confesses. Jihoon watches him carefully, lips turning southward into a pretty frown.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“I’m not really sure.” Junhui sounds confused to his own ears. “I guess we better get going, then?”

The first half of the drive is quiet save for the prattling of the radio and Jihoon’s soft harmonizing with it. They pass the CVS where Junhui bought the stomach medicine on the way back from Jeonghan’s, and Jihoon snaps his fingers like he’s just recalled something, snaps them a few more times in quick succession after like he’s keeping a strange beat, and breaks the silence. “Are you very busy this week?”

“Yes,” Junhui groans. “I have appointments every day until Saturday.” Jihoon hums.

“So you’re free Saturday?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Obviously, we need to plan this appointment,” Jihoon scoffs. He throws a glance Junhui’s way with skepticism. “Sometimes I feel like you just like asking questions.”

“What’s wrong with asking questions?” he inquires with a smirk. Jihoon groans. “Real question, though. Why are we going so far instead of to one of the places in town?”

“Research says this place is the best without being too pricey,” he states matter-of-factly. Maybe it’s just Junhui, but he sounds a little proud of the research he’s done. “We’re not just wasting gas.”

“If you—” Jihoon’s fist is balled up in an instant. Junhui gulps. “Alright.”

The place kind of looks more like a house than a business, and there are only about four parking spots, but Junhui figures he can trust it if Jihoon does, so he parks and walks inside anyway. Nobody is in the entryway to greet them when they arrive, but within a few minutes, a beefy guy in a graphic tee bearing the shop’s name hurries down a flight of stairs to meet them.

“Evening,” he says, bright and friendly and very energetic. “How can I help you folks?”

“We’re here to make an appointment with, uh, Seungcheol?” Jihoon’s confidence fizzles out toward the end of the sentence, but the guy nods enthusiastically.

“That’s me!” he almost shouts. He crosses the room to a desk and pulls out a binder, flipping through a few pages with a wide smile on his face. It’s the smile of someone who does what they love to do. Junhui knows it well. “When were you thinking? I haven’t got many appointments booked right now, so name your day.”

“Can you do this Saturday?”

“Absolutely,” he whistles, scribbling something down on the page in front of him. “What are you thinking of getting?” Jihoon clutches his left bicep gingerly.

“Over here, I wanted to get a, uh…” His free hand swims through the air to find a description for a good minute before giving up. “Can I borrow your pen?”

Seungcheol is happy to relinquish it, along with a fresh piece of paper for Jihoon to unleash his creative vision. He starts with a slightly sloppy doodle of a musical staff that gradually dissolves into a cluster of dots, which gradually sprout wings and turn into a small flock of birds. The intent is probably for Seungcheol to redraw it, make it a little neater and better in general, but Junhui thinks it’s nice even as it is. It certainly isn’t what he’d been expecting Jihoon to want immortalized on his skin, though he doesn’t know what he had been expecting. Something about it puts a smile on his face.

“I see, I see,” Seungcheol muses, tapping his chin. “I can definitely work with this. And you want it about this size?” Jihoon nods, and Seungcheol nods in return, slightly more vigorous. It almost looks like a contest. “Alright, so how about you come around 2 on Saturday, and until then, we can email to get the final design worked out?”

“That sounds fine.”

“Excellent.” Seungcheol gives them both an excited thumbs up. “Let me run up to the office and get you a reminder card. I’ll be right back.” Jihoon follows him with his eyes while he jogs back to the stairs but stops at Junhui very conspicuously, gaze going from neutral to aggravated with speed.

“What’s so funny?” he spits.

“What? Nothing’s funny.”

“You’re so…” He huffs. “Are you laughing because it’s a juvenile tattoo idea?” Junhui’s brain gets tripped up by the thought. Laughing? “Well, I’ve always wanted it, so you can shut the hell up.” Oh, that’s right. He was smiling like an idiot for no apparent reason.

“I’m not _laughing_ ,” he clarifies. Jihoon still looks dubious. “I’m just _smiling_. I think it’s a nice idea for a tattoo.” Jihoon stares at him silently, mouth firmly pressed into a line. Junhui hates how cute his dimples are.

“Are you lying so I won’t get mad?”

“ _No_.”

“If you’re lying to me,” he grumbles, raising a fist, “I swear—”

“Hey, hey, no bloodshed in the shop,” Seungcheol interjects as he dashes back into the room, cards in hand. He shoves them into Jihoon’s hand to force it back open. “If you two want to brawl, do it outside. I can’t handle the paperwork.” Jihoon laughs mirthlessly, tucking the cards into his wallet.

“No need to worry about that.” Junhui has never heard anything less convincing. He wonders if he ought to fear for his own life. “We’ll see you Saturday.”

Much like the drive to the shop, the drive back home is dominated by silence for the first half. Again, much like the previous drive, Jihoon is the one to break it, and as a third parallel, he does so with another question. “Do you have a tattoo?” It catches Junhui off guard, makes him raise his eyebrows at the road before him, lessen his grip on the wheel.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” That’s fair, he guesses, though he never took Jihoon for the curious type. It’s usually Junhui asking all the questions. “Are you gonna tell me or not?”

“Yeah, I have one.”

“Really?” The surprise in his tone is genuine, and Junhui doesn’t know how he feels about it, doesn’t even know how he should feel or what the options for feeling are to pick between them. “What is it?”

“The Gemini constellation.” He lowers a hand from the wheel to give his leg an explanatory pat. “It’s on my thigh.”

“Why’d you get it?” Junhui shrugs.

“I’m a Gemini,” he supposes. “I took a few astronomy classes while I was in college, and I used to be really big into constellations.” He throws a glance Jihoon’s way. “It’s kinda cute. It looks like two little guys holding hands.” Jihoon snorts.

“I can’t believe you didn’t show me.”

“Jihoon, if you want to see my thighs, all you have to do is ask.” Junhui gulps right after he says it because it’s edging much closer to flirting territory than he was intending to go for his own sake, but Jihoon eases it away with a loud guffaw that relieves some of the aching tension in Junhui’s chest. Traces remain, but the bulk of it washes out under the musical ring of Jihoon’s laughter.

“Sure,” he allows, drumming on his own knees. “I do want to see it sometime, though.” Junhui’s face is hot even though he doesn’t want it to be, so he nods as normally as possible. The last thing Jihoon does before he gets out of the car is threaten him with a thorough ass kicking if he forgets to come pick him up on Saturday, and then Junhui is on his way back home. It takes him more than ninety-six stars to fall asleep.

Jeonghan seems to notice the extra exhaustion hanging under his eyes the next morning when he comes in before his appointment, but in typical Jeonghan fashion, he doesn’t mention it in a way indicative of concern. He strolls up to Junhui with crossed arms while he’s getting his bag ready and looks him over carefully. Junhui can feel the designer totes perched below his bottom lashes, and he sighs before Jeonghan even gets a word out.

“What’s robbing you of your greatly needed beauty rest?” is what he decides to open with. Junhui was right to sigh, so right that he does it again.

“I don’t know, adult problems? Some of us are actually mature and grown.” Before Jeonghan can make any kind of counter, Junhui fills in with unsolicited information. “Jihoon is getting a tattoo.” He’s not sure why he felt compelled to share it, but Jeonghan always eats useless things like that up.

“Really?” He strokes his chin in thought. “Actually, I’m not surprised. I kind of figured he was hiding full sleeves under his jacket.” Junhui chuckles at the image. He’d love a picture or two of Jihoon’s arms covered shoulder to wrist in ink.

“Well, I hate to shatter your illusion, but this is his first one.” He loops the strap on the camera case around his neck and stands upright. It’s always been a joy to have several inches on Jeonghan. “We’re going to get it done on Saturday.”

“We? Is he getting your name tattooed or something?” Junhui stares at him blankly.

“I often find myself wondering where your jokes end and your stupidity begins,” he deadpans.

“ _Rude_ ,” Jeonghan hisses. “I think it’s a reasonable question considering I can’t think of why else _you_ would need to be there.”

“I’m driving him,” Junhui explains, but Jeonghan remains skeptical.

“What, so he’s just using you for a ride?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s not what friends do.” Junhui rolls his eyes.

“Yet you would totally do that.” When he looks at his watch, he almost chokes on his own spit. “Oh my god. You’re so annoying. I’m gonna be late.” With no further words, he sprints out of the office and hops in his car, speeds as much as he thinks he can get away with on the drive over, and arrives with not one minute to spare.

It does haunt him, though, now that Jeonghan brought it up. Why _does_ he need to be there? Obviously, he needs a ride to this place, but Junhui knows better than to think he’s being reduced to a set of wheels. It’s almost definitely because it’s something on his bucket list, but that raises another concern. Not a single one of Jihoon’s bucket list items thus far has been anything he really needed Junhui for. Hadn’t he said initially that he needed someone to help him knock items off the list? Wasn’t that why he signed up for that stupid dating site in the first place? Why is it that he has yet to need help with anything?

Junhui groans. No use stewing over it. He’ll just have to ask, he guesses. Seems like asking is all he does these days. He’s always known he was a curious sort of guy, but he never used to think he was this bad about it, just this constant stream of inquiries that can never seem to get enough answers no matter how many it receives. Maybe it’s just because it’s Jihoon and he has so much he wants to know. There are implications to that line of thinking, and Junhui knows it, but he lets himself dwell on them a little anyway. Big mistake. He stops dwelling on them.

Saturday rolls around with remarkable swiftness despite Junhui’s unusually cramped schedule, and before he knows it, he’s back to idling in 514’s guest spot while he waits for Jihoon to arrive. Those implications he doesn’t mean to think about start to creep up on him the longer he waits, those L-words he’s pretending he’s never heard of, those adolescent daydreams about futures with high school crushes reserved for people who’ve got the time. Time is a luxury Junhui has not been afforded, but somehow, those daydreams are finding him anyway. He shoots straight through the roof of his car when Jihoon opens the passenger door and climbs in.

“Afternoon,” he breathes hastily, casting his vision to Jihoon’s side of the vehicle. He’s lifting the camera case that had once again been occupying the seat into his lap with a face full of skepticism and fastening his seatbelt with fingers shrouded by the sleeves of a heather gray hoodie. He has a pale yellow t-shirt on under it, and it occurs to Junhui that he’s never seen Jihoon wear anything but sweaters since they met. It makes Jihoon look more youthful in a very charming way, and it makes Junhui feel even more bizarre. “Ready to go get this tattoo?”

“Why are you so jumpy?” Jihoon asks, dubious. “Were you asleep?”

“What? Of course not. Why would you think that?” None of the suspicion drains from Jihoon’s features. Junhui groans. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure you weren’t asleep?” Jihoon presses as they turn out of the garage and onto the road. His words get quicker the more he feels like he’s connecting the dots. “You said you had a busy week. If you’re really tired, and I’m making you take me to get this done, then—”

“Whoa,” Junhui almost yells, “slow down.” Jihoon’s eyes are a little wider than normal behind his glasses when Junhui looks over at him. Cute, he thinks, then unthinks, then thinks again. “You’re being very weirdly considerate, but I swear to you that I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Weirdly?” Jihoon scoffs, settling back into the seat and clutching the camera case to his stomach. “I’m always considerate.”

“Name one time you have ever been considerate.”

“I let you spend the night at my house so you wouldn’t crash and die, remember?” He points his finger proudly, smile stretching across his face and digging dimples by the corners of his lips. “And that was just this week.” Junhui snorts.

“Stopping me from crashing and dying is a very basic level of consideration and totally doesn’t count.” Jihoon huffs.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “I don’t need you to agree to know I’m right. Would you turn on the radio?” Junhui does turn on the radio because sometimes he forgets how to say no, and he indulges in the aching lilt of Jihoon’s voice for as long as the drive will let him.

Seungcheol appears unduly excited to see them when they reenter the shop that afternoon, smile just as wide and sparkling as before, cheeks dented by prominent dimples. He shuffles them into the waiting room to have Jihoon fill out a short release form saying he’s eaten and he isn’t pregnant and he’s old enough to have a needle sink ink into his skin without telling anyone about it. It all brings back memories of when Junhui got his tattoo, when he’d been young enough to have to show his ID before he could convince the artist he really was old enough. It’d be a far cry now for anyone to ask him to prove his age.

The design Seungcheol shows them is much cleaner than the original scribble Jihoon had put together for him, and it looks like something that belongs on someone’s body, something that deserves to be seen and noticed and recognized, though Junhui does feel a little pang of sympathy for Jihoon’s scrapped handiwork. With little fanfare and a few rounds of cold wipes to Jihoon’s arm, the process is underway.

Watching an inked needle be dragged over someone’s skin to trace out lines and little circles in solid black is about as exhilarating as it sounds, but Junhui can’t seem to take his eyes away. Jihoon looks calm even though Junhui knows it doesn’t feel pleasant, and there’s something in his expression that compels Junhui to take his camera out and snap a few quick shots while Seungcheol works. The buzz of the needle is loud enough to overshadow the sound of the shutter, so Junhui takes as many shots as he wants without getting any sideways looks, though he knows he’d just capture those, too.

Seungcheol has a habit of making jokes while he works, small quips that coax muted chuckles out of Jihoon while he sits in the chair, patiently awaiting the moment when Seungcheol tells him it’s finally finished. His knees bounce anxiously despite the placid look on his face, and Junhui wonders if there’s anything he can do to still them, wonders if there’s any way to distract Jihoon from whatever pain is in his arm, wonders if finding a way will make his chest feel less weird.

“Hey, Jihoon,” he calls, lifting his camera. Jihoon turns his head with a sort of skeptical curiosity. “Smile!” Shutter. Seungcheol laughs. Jihoon groans.

“You’re so _weird_ ,” he says, irate in presentation alone. Seungcheol hums out a few more laughs while he continues working. “Why do you have to take pictures of everything?”

“It’s my photographer’s eye,” Junhui scoffs, snapping another. “I see beautiful things, and I photograph them. That’s how it works.” Seungcheol in the background is kind of making the pictures less beautiful, but it’s nothing he can’t get over. Which reminds him that Seungcheol is very present, very much heard Junhui just not-so-subtly call Jihoon beautiful, very greatly does not need to be around for this conversation. Thankfully, he doesn’t elect to weigh in, doesn’t even act like he heard.

“Almost done!” he crows instead, leaning back to inspect his work. “And it’s looking pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He tilts his chin in Junhui’s direction. “Hey, come over here and take a look.”

Junhui crosses the room nervously, angles down to get a closer look around the still-active needle. It does look wonderful, dynamic and elegant, with only a few birds left to be inked. The stark black of the ink stands out against Jihoon’s fair skin, another of those entrancing contrasts he seems to be so riddled with. Of course Junhui has to take a picture of it. Seungcheol laughs again, hearty and deep, when the shutter sound makes Jihoon send a silent glare in their direction. Junhui shrugs it off.

When at long last the tattoo is fully completed, Junhui snaps a picture or two of its final form before Seungcheol covers it with gauze. “Leave this on for two hours,” he instructs, plopping a miniscule tube of ointment in Jihoon’s hand. “You’ll want to put that on a few times a day, after you shower, any other time it feels dried out, things like that. Don’t scrub it with a loofah or anything when you shower, and don’t rub it dry with a towel. Just pat it.” He pats the covered area a few times gently to demonstrate. Junhui thinks Jihoon probably wants to point out that he knows how patting works, but if he does, he bites his tongue. “If you’ve got any other questions, go ahead and send me an email, and if you see that it needs touching up in a few weeks, don’t hesitate to come back in, alright?”

“Got it,” Jihoon says. Though he tries to be neutral, there’s no stopping the smile that blossoms on his lips. Seungcheol returns it in kind.

“Stupendous. Now let’s get your tab settled and have you on your way.”

Once they’re in the car and back on the route home, Jihoon asks if he can look at the pictures of the tattoo in Junhui’s camera. “I didn’t really get to see it,” is his justification, though Junhui was going to let him anyway. He hums while he clicks through the captures, vaguely lining up with the song on the radio in just enough areas to cease being coincidental. After a few minutes of Jihoon’s perusing the image gallery, it becomes apparent to Junhui that he’s looking at more than just the pictures of the finished tattoo.

“Having fun over there?” Junhui asks him. Jihoon whistles a low note, holds it out awhile and lets it glitter.

“You sure did take a lot of pictures,” he muses. “Was it entirely necessary to take so many of me just sitting in the chair?”

“I already told you,” Junhui reminds him, “I photograph what’s beautiful.” Jihoon snorts, endearing as ever, but somehow bitter as well.

“There’s nothing beautiful about me sitting in a chair with a needle on my arm.”

“Hate to bring this up,” Junhui begins, “but you look beautiful just about all the time regardless of what you say.” Jihoon coughs loudly, and Junhui realizes—once again with incredible delay—that he’s dipping his toes into a pool they’d probably better steer clear of; at the same time, though, he doesn’t particularly feel like taking it back. Fortunately, Jihoon bars him from doing so.

“I am _not_ beautiful,” he huffs, dancing on the edge of outrage. Just hearing him say it fills Junhui’s gut with something ugly and draining, overwhelms him with the sense that it’s wrong, so blatantly wrong for him to think that. It’s untrue and it’s false and it’s every other synonym he can think of. No amount of them is enough to explain just how wholly incorrect Jihoon is to say such a thing, and now Junhui’s been tasked with proving a blatant truth to someone who refuses to believe it. Is it worth putting any effort in at all?

“You are, though,” is Junhui’s response. He’s decided to forego the effort for the time being. Someday, he’ll probably be up to this argument.

“I’m ugly, Junhui” Jihoon retorts stiffly, and it hurts Junhui’s chest, but he tries not to let it show.

“Don’t say that,” he counters, drumming his fingers on the wheel. A spark hits him out of nowhere. “Janis Joplin always thought she was ugly, but then she did that one shoot and was, like, a sex symbol.”

“Funny you mention that,” Jihoon says softly, strangely, “considering Janis Joplin died at 27.”

Junhui’s mouth is dry all of a sudden. She did, didn’t she? Of course he didn’t even think about that. Idiot. He scrounges his brain for a different and less morbid example, any other person who thought they were ugly when they really weren’t, but his search comes up empty. He opens and closes his mouth uselessly a few times without taking his eyes off the road, unbearably desperate for something to diffuse the tension in the air, but Jihoon does it himself by sighing.

“Sorry,” he says, “that was a little dark.” He slips the camera back into its case and zips it shut, replaces it in the spot on his lap. “Thanks for bringing me to get this done, even if you did take a bizarre number of pictures.”

“No problem.” Silence only lasts for a second before a thought jars Junhui’s lips back into motion. “Wait, speaking of that, I need to ask you something.”

“Of course you do.” Jihoon expels another breath, and Junhui doesn’t dare reflect on how affectionate it sounds, how fond. “What is it?”

“I get this is something off your bucket list and all,” he starts, “but why am I here? I know you said you needed someone to help you knock things off your list, but it doesn’t really seem like you’ve actually needed me to help you with anything so far.” He flicks his eyes over to appraise Jihoon’s expression, but much like the poems forced on him all those years ago in his senior year lit class, he can’t quite read anything. Sometimes those glasses are less like windows and more like walls.

“Well, I guess I don’t necessarily _need_ someone to help me with any of them,” Jihoon allows, “but the thing is, I don’t like being alone. You know?” Junhui has to know. Jihoon must know that he does. “I can’t stand to be by myself, and I’ve been by myself for a while, so yeah, maybe I can do everything on my own, but I’d rather have some company. I think I deserve that.”

“That’s fair,” Junhui concedes. All things considered, isn’t he just after a little company, too? “I’m not complaining, by the way. I’m thrilled to be your company.”

“Thank goodness,” Jihoon says, hand falling on his heart in mock relief. The corners of his lips creep upward just barely. “I guess I am lucky you’re the first person I found, though.”

Junhui thinks that was a little lucky too, thinks he was lucky himself for meeting Jihoon before anyone else did, lucky for having someone as endearingly annoying as Jeonghan to push him in the first place. He thinks they’re both a little lucky and both a little not, and he wonders which weighs heavier in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo! chapter 4! i suspected this one might take me a little longer because i had to do some traveling last week, but i actually didn't do too bad on the timing this round, so there's a small win for us here at camp triggerswaggiehavoc. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i hope you're ready for more because lord knows i am going to Bring It. i'll do my best to continue updating in a timely fashion until we've wrapped it all up, so please bear with me  
> thank you so very much for reading! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. see you next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holidays come.

Snow starts to fall more as they edge their way into December, and by the time the first week of the month is rounding out, the plows are making rounds almost daily, scraping freshly fallen powder over asphalt until it’s become hideous gray slush piling up by the roadsides. The lower the temperature drops alongside time’s undying forward march, the more the ensuing holiday season takes over the thoughts of the populace. Every glittering fairy light in a shop display is another reminder, every prop gift and tinsel-strewn tree. Even the bright red cups at coffee shops ring of vibrant festivity, enough to give Junhui a headache.

It’s not that Junhui’s not a fan of the holidays—far as he can remember, he’s always been fond of them, fond of the warmth and the togetherness and crystalline contentment lacing every window in the form of frost—but the sweet scent of gingerbread can only distract him for so long from the swirling mass of questions between his ears, the uncertain weight of those recent holiday blues. When boiled down to its very essence, Junhui’s largest concern is whether or not he’s doomed to spend Christmas alone.

Usually, he visits home, but this year, his mother’s gone out of the country to visit relatives and taken his little brother with her. Since Junhui’s not a kid anymore, he doesn’t get roped into trips like that, and now he’s been left without a home to go back to. Options are limited, and time is short. Maybe he’ll ask Seokmin if he can spend it with them.

There’s always the chance he might be able to spend it with Jihoon, but he writes that off to an alternate timeline, a different universe, one where Jihoon has sixty Christmases left, enough to waste one on Junhui. As it stands, he’s fairly certain Jihoon will be heading home to his own family for Christmas, which leaves him in a bit of a situation. As he sits on the sofa, eyes glazing over while he stares at the evening television, he decides to dig his phone out of his pocket and call Seokmin.

“If it isn’t my favorite person in the world to whom I am not married,” he bubbles enthusiastically, voice a very welcome gift to Junhui’s ears. It feels like eons since he heard it last. “What can I do for you on this fine and chilly evening?”

“Hey,” Junhui begins tentatively, gauging how best to say this to make him not seem as desperate and intrusive as he is. Seokmin has always been nice; he’ll probably do fine just asking flat out. “You’re my friend and you care about me, right?”

“Of course,” Seokmin shoots back without hesitation. “Why? Are you moving? Are you getting a dog?”

“No to both.” Seokmin exhales a sigh that dances along the border between relief and disappointment. “I was actually wondering if you would be willing to replace my family on Christmas and let me come spend it with you two.”

“I’d be thrilled to have you over!” he nearly shrieks. Junhui pulls the phone back from his ear for a moment to recover, but it doesn’t do much for his fractured eardrum. “I’ll let Jeonghan know you’re coming. He’ll probably want you to bring him a gift.”

“I figured as much,” Junhui sighs. “So—”

He’s cut off by the bizarre sound of another call interrupting his first one, a delayed and uneven echo of his ringtone over the sound of Seokmin waiting on the other end of the line. Jihoon’s name flashes on the screen when he looks at it, big and bold and quietly commanding. “Wait, I’m getting another call,” Junhui spits into the receiver hastily, rushing to keep Jihoon’s incoming call from timing out. “Can I call you back in a minute?”

“Sure,” comes the cheerful reply, and then Junhui is swiping his fingers over the screen in a desperate attempt to make it to his other call. His ear is hot when he rests the phone against it again.

“Hey,” he pants. If he gave himself time to think about it, he’d probably be embarrassed by his frantic need to answer this specific phone call despite his innate knowledge that he could call Jihoon back at any time, but for the time being, he won’t give himself time to think about it.

“Were you doing something?” Jihoon asks. “You sound out of breath.”

“I was just talking on the phone.” Now’s not the time to mention he gets breathless when he gets anxious. Jihoon will just ask why he was anxious, and Junhui isn’t fearless enough to admit he was genuinely afraid he’d miss the call. “What do you need?”

“Talking on the phone gets you out of breath?” Jihoon asks with a snort. Junhui can hear the cute way his eyebrow is raised, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the subtle quirk of his lips into that strange smirk. Thank god he can’t see it.

“What do you need?” he repeats like he didn’t hear. Jihoon laughs one hard chuckle.

“I was wondering what you want for Christmas.”

Junhui’s hearing might be going already, but he’s pretty confident in what he picked up just now, even through the incessant crackle of the speakers. He’ll admit he had absolutely no idea what Jihoon was calling him about, but he’ll just as quickly confess to the prospect of Jihoon buying him a Christmas gift being the last one in the book. He thought a little about buying Jihoon a Christmas present, sure, but he scrapped it in the face of Jihoon’s probable return home and his absolute lack of ideas. The sound of Jihoon saying, “Hello?” is what makes his own extended silence register.

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, “what was that?”

“Are you okay?” Jihoon sounds kind of annoyed and also kind of concerned. “I asked what you want for Christmas.”

“You’re getting me a Christmas gift?”

“I think you have the context to not have to ask that,” he grumbles impatiently. “I’m already out, so I figured I may as well ask now.”

“But when would you give it to me?” Jihoon sighs into his ear. He’s getting frustrated. It’s not Junhui’s fault he was never good at connecting dots and always asks too many questions and can’t seem to think as well as he needs to when he talks to Jihoon.

“I think the obvious answer is Christmas,” he says irately. “If you don’t tell me _something_ , you’re getting the can of kidney beans that I’m looking at right now.”

“Christmas?” For a moment, Jihoon sounds like he’s about to snap back with something else, but then the line dies. It stays dead for a minute while Jihoon thinks and Junhui can’t.

“Oh,” is what Jihoon finally revives it with. “That’s right. I guess you’re going home, huh?” There’s a noise on his end followed by what sounds like footsteps. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Wait, I’m not visiting home,” Junhui interjects swiftly. The footsteps stop. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” Jihoon states, wary. “I haven’t spent Christmas with family for years.”

“Oh.” Neither says anything for a minute, both breathing quietly with lips hovering beside their respective mics. Junhui feels awkward and he doesn’t know why, wonders if Jihoon feels awkward too or if he’s just suffering alone. Eventually, Jihoon coughs. It feels louder than it is.

“So,” he eases in cautiously, “are you going to tell me what to get you or not?” Junhui hums.

“I could use some socks. Or hand towels.” He ponders a little longer. “Or a tie.”

“A tie?” Jihoon squawks. “I have never seen you wear a tie.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t have one.”

“Why don’t you just buy yourself one?” he groans.

“Buy myself something at Christmas time?” Junhui barks in outrage. “I should think not.” Jihoon exhales a long breath before responding.

“Fine,” he concedes at last. “I’ll get you a damn tie.” Junhui smiles in spite of himself, in spite of how he still doesn’t know how to tie one. He guesses he’ll just have to ask Jihoon to teach him.

“What do you want?” he asks in response. Jihoon hums into his ear, so clear it sounds like he might really be there. Junhui would think he was if he closed his eyes for a moment, and for a moment, he considers doing it. He lets that moment pass.

“Coffee,” is what Jihoon tells him. “Beans or grounds, either is fine.  I’ll trust you to make a good choice.”

“Coffee?” Junhui asks. “That’s it?” He’d been hoping for something a little more extraordinary, something that feels a little more like a gift, but he figures he didn’t do much better himself asking for socks and a tie.

“That’s it,” Jihoon says, then, “I’m going to hang up now. Hope you’re having fun watching the news.” Junhui glances at the television, where a news anchor is summing up the latest important stock price fluctuations, and frowns, then frowns a little more when a click and its subsequent jingle hit his ears. Damned Jihoon and his damned accuracy. After a few more minutes of watching the anchor relate less-than-interesting facts about stocks and numbers and the health of the market, he remembers he needs to call Seokmin back and let him know he no longer needs to intrude.

“Hey,” Seokmin says the second he picks up, after only a single ring. “I talked to Jeonghan already, and he’s fine with you and Jihoon coming over, but he does want a present like I said he would.”

“Of course he does,” Junhui sighs, followed by brief strangulation on his own saliva. “Me and Jihoon?” he chokes out.

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” It isn’t, Junhui would like to tell him, but Seokmin is so good at talking that he just keeps going without pause. “Anyway, he said you know what he likes and didn’t tell me anything specific, but if you can’t think of anything, just give me a ring!”

“Wait a second, actually—” The piercing beep of an alarm on Seokmin’s side of the call cuts him off halfway through, sends a small wave of shock through his ear.

_“My roast!”_ Seokmin howls directly into the microphone. “I have to go, see you at Christmaaaaaaaa—”

Junhui’s ears ring for a solid minute after the call is over, ring until it starts to resonate inside his skull, too, shaking his brain around making him dizzy. Now he has to buy two more gifts than he’d been expecting, and he should probably get something for Seokmin, too, and he should also let Jihoon know that they’re going back to the Yoon household. Suddenly, he has become a very busy man with very many things to do, and now he’s got a great deal more interest in the drab voice pouring from the speaker on the news. If only he could lie on the couch and listen to that monotone drawl forever, forget everything on his mind and live out the rest of his days in this exact spot, never have to worry about anything again. Of course things aren’t that easy.

With the advent of the Christmas season came a usual decline in appointments—most people would rather spend time with their families than get new headshots taken—so Junhui doesn’t have much work to distract him in the days leading up to the holiday, meaning he has no excuse to put off shopping as much as he does. The only job he has for the time being is a wedding about a week before Christmas, and it provides him with enough of a mental break for a day or two. The way the snow floats down in the outdoor pictures is enchanting, makes him think he’d like to have a winter wedding if the chance ever arose. It also reminds him of the pictures he took of Jihoon at the skating rink, scattered flakes coming to rest on his eyelashes and dusting his cheeks and nose with a rosy highlight. More and more things seem to be reminding him of Jihoon these days, and he thinks he knows exactly what that means, but he pretends he doesn’t.

It even happens at the store, specifically when he’s gone out to buy his Christmas gifts and was already thinking about him anyway. He buys novelty socks for Jeonghan, decorated with _Mona Lisa_ and the _Great Wave Off Kanagawa_ , and settles on dollar bill origami for Seokmin because it seems like one of those bizarre things he’ll be unusually interested in and finish to the end. That leaves Jihoon, who gave no option but coffee, and while Junhui peruses the aisle in search of a brand he thinks will be up to par, he spies something that screams _Jihoon_ at him louder than any voice could do justice.

Maybe it’s not something Jihoon would like at all, but it reminds Junhui of him all the same, a porcelain coffee mug etched with the likeness of a markedly angry cartoon chicken. Its yellow beak turns downward in a pronounced frown, eyes overset by angry brows, and it must be the cutest, angriest thing he’s ever seen in his life. The more he looks at it, the more he’s sure Jihoon is not interested in owning it, the more he thinks he absolutely has to get it for him. It’s the only one of its kind he’s seen, and if this isn’t his lucky stars or god telling him to buy it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get a message from any of them. With little debate, he plucks it off the shelf and chalks it up to destiny.

Thus, he finds himself idling in 514’s guest spot once more on midmorning of Christmas day with a small pile of neatly wrapped gifts in the back seat. In addition to Jihoon’s mug are two bags of coffee beans, selected after careful inspection of the packaging and a brief search on the internet, and he prays as he waits that they will make up for whatever Jihoon feels about the mug. He also prays that the day goes by fine and nothing strange happens like his gut is telling him it will, and then he wonders why he’s bothering to pray in the first place when the power of prayer has never meant much to him. A single tap on the glass of the passenger side window breaks him from his meditation.

“Merry Christmas,” Jihoon says as he climbs in. He looks overwhelmingly soft in a thick green sweater with white snowflakes knitted in, sleeves obscuring everything but the very tips of his fingers, which grip a bundle wrapped in bright red paper that sparkles with green stars. The neck creeps up to dust his chin, strangely complements the silver frames of his glasses and pulls a little shimmer out of his eyes, and his hair looks so soft, so gently curled and lightly mussed, and Junhui wishes he could reach over to touch him, see if it’s all just an illusion. Naturally, he can’t.

“Merry Christmas,” Junhui returns while he backs out of the space. Someone at the entrance of the garage eyes them dubiously as they cruise by, an unpleasant looking guy with a popped collar and fauxhawk that Jihoon whispers is 514. His gaze follows them until they’ve turned out onto the street. “Had a nice day so far?”

“I guess,” Jihoon surmises. “I slept in an hour longer than usual.” He readjusts his cargo on his knees, and it makes Junhui notice his legs and how nice they are, shapely in a pair of dark jeans that look unworn and maybe new. Junhui tries and fails not to keep throwing glances at them.

“Just an hour?” Junhui asks. “Don’t you wake up before six? You should have slept longer.”

“I slept a little past seven, so it’s fine. If I stay in bed too long, I’ll feel gross.” His lips twitch up in a smile when he looks at Junhui. “I’m sure you rolled right out of bed and came to get me, huh?”

“What, I look that bad?” Junhui thinks he looks okay, might even say a little nice, a cream sweater and black slacks. He even styled his hair. “I can kick you out of this car, you know.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jihoon sighs. “Besides, you wouldn’t kick me out.” The way the sun dances low in the sky just behind Jihoon frames him in a soft glow, a full body halo. Junhui thinks he knows a song that sings about this, but he can’t bring the name to mind. Jihoon would probably know it.

“Yeah,” he agrees wistfully, “I wouldn’t.”

Words fall and drown between them in the hushed undertow of the radio. Junhui wishes Jihoon would say something, wishes he’d throw out a lifeline, because all he can think about Jihoon’s stupid legs and how they probably tread water much better than he’s treading his own thoughts right now. The sun creeps a little higher in the sky, but never enough to fully rob Jihoon of the heaven behind him, and it only makes Junhui more likely to sink.

His lifeline comes after three or four songs. “Oh yeah,” Jihoon hums. “I forgot to ask. Why did you stay in town for Christmas?” Junhui mentioned once that he usually visits home to be with family even though he’s been out of the house for long enough not to need to, and he’s not sure if Jihoon remembers that or not, but the vague indication that he might ties his stomach in butterfly knots anyway.

“My mom and my little brother went out of the country to visit family,” he explains, and Jihoon nods while he looks out the window, scenery running in straight lines across his irises. “Why are you in town? I thought for sure you’d go home.” Jihoon heaves a breath like he’s just had the weight of ten worlds lifted from his shoulders and now Junhui’s come and replaced it with the weight of eleven. Junhui regrets asking, but Jihoon talks anyway.

“I told you I don’t have any siblings, right?” Junhui nods, eyes fixed on the road. “Well, yeah. My parents and I were never very close, and they’re so old now. They forget a lot, and there’s a lot they can’t do, so they stay in an extended care facility. I don’t really have a home to go back to.” Junhui lets that simmer for a bit, soak through his brain and fill in every crack.

“Oh,” he manages at last. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jihoon tells him. “No use crying over how things are.” He heaves another breath, but this time it sounds more relieved. A thin, fragile laugh slips from his mouth. “Merry Christmas,” he snickers without much energy or humor.

“Merry Christmas,” Junhui repeats back to him. His arm is aching to reach over, give Jihoon a pat on the shoulder or head or leg or anything, but he holds it back and keeps his hands on the wheel. It aches more.

Seokmin squeals when he hears the sound of the doorbell ringing. Junhui and Jihoon know this because they hear him from outside, and when he opens the door to usher them in, he does it again, shrill and piercing. The house is decked out fully in garlands and lights and wreaths, none of which Junhui has any inclination to believe Jeonghan helped set up, and it smells like gingerbread and pine. He guides them to the living room, where a modest tree wearing a dazzling coat of lights and golden ornaments stands proud over a small collection of gifts.

“We could have opened presents when we woke up, but you just _had_ to join us,” Jeonghan hisses from the couch when Junhui adds his and Jihoon’s presents to the pile. He looks cozy in fuzzy socks and a bright red sweater that’s probably Seokmin’s, Santa hat pulled down over his ears. “Nice to see you again, Jihoon. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Jihoon returns with a sideways smile. Junhui frowns.

“Why are you so bitter?” he mutters darkly, digging his knee into Jeonghan’s ribs. “They’re just gifts, Hannie. They’ll be there no matter when you open them.”

“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” he groans, shoving Junhui’s leg away. Something in it pops suspiciously, and Junhui can’t help but feel a spike of concern. “The gift I got Seokmin is extremely time-sensitive, and it would have been way better to give it to him earlier.”

“Time-sensitive?” Jihoon asks with another of his bizarrely charming snorts. “What did you get him, a soufflé?” Junhui’s heart melts just a little bit at that because he’s weak to humor that dry and weaker to Jihoon in general than he’d be pleased to admit. Jeonghan doesn’t seem to be affected.

“You’ll see,” is all he says, and then Seokmin parades in with a tray of cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and ready to be eaten.

When they have all the icing cleaned off their fingers—because forks are for people who hate fun, according to Seokmin—it’s finally time to open presents. Seokmin gives Jeonghan one of those fancy coffee makers that does everything for you, exactly Jeonghan’s type of gift, and he must have saved up for a long time to buy it. He’s a sweet guy, really, and he makes Junhui’s gift look even more mediocre in comparison, but Jeonghan acts thrilled anyway, tugging off his own thick socks and pulling on the pair featuring the wave.

Despite Jeonghan’s earlier anger at his own gift for Seokmin being delayed, he willingly urges Jihoon and Junhui to exchange their gifts for each other before he gives Seokmin his. Junhui eyes Jihoon’s expression cautiously while he unwraps his gift, heart shuddering in its cavity.

“Oh,” he says, pleasant and surprised, when he uncovers the coffee, hoisting the bag up in his hand and inspecting it carefully. “I’ve been wanting to try this kind. Thank you.”

He pushes his lips out in a pout of concentration while he peels the paper off the mug, and suddenly, Junhui is overwhelmed by how pretty his lips are, how perfect. They look smooth and gorgeous, and he hopes he isn’t staring at them, but his hopes are dashed when Jihoon finally frees the mug and he has to tear his gaze away. Damn it.

“Uh,” Jihoon begins hesitantly, turning the vessel over in his hands, “is this a… chicken?” His expression is written in Braille and Junhui has no hands.

“Yes,” he admits.

“An angry chicken?”

“Yes.” Does he like it or hate it? Junhui would scream if he lacked the emotional maturity to discern when it is an appropriate time to scream. After a solid minute of nothing but held breath and tense stares, his mouth turns into a subtle crescent, the smallest of smiles.

“It’s cute,” he says at last. It reminded me of you, Junhui would like to tell him, but Jeonghan’s eyes are very sharp on him at this moment, so he decides against it. “Thanks,” and Jihoon’s eyes are sparkling just a little, but maybe it’s the lights on the tree. “I’ll use it.” Junhui’s heart sings without tune or rhythm, a scoreless song of excess joy, and he works hard to keep it inside.

“Guess I’ll open mine,” Junhui says a little nervously, and Jihoon gives him a look that says, _Just wait_. He tears the tape away slowly, ripping the paper off in strips until he’s revealed not one tie, but three.

They’re all ridiculous. The first one bears a stack of donuts sporting various glazes sprinkles, and the second is designed to look like a piano, a measured contrast of ebony and ivory that stays even until the tie tapers into nothing. The third tie is the strangest of all, and for a long time, Junhui can’t quite figure out what he’s looking at. It looks like a single frame duplicated over and over to fill up space in some sort of lazy tessellation, low in resolution and hard to decipher. The more Junhui looks at it, the more he understands.

“Is this a picture of you?” he asks, and Jihoon nods with a wide smile, eyes crinkling. Sure enough, it’s a picture of Jihoon, clearly taken on a phone without much care. The angle isn’t bad at all, and the more Junhui can discern the details, the more he looks perfect, beautiful, everything. Junhui feels the muscles in his face going sore from smiling. “Did you order this?”

Jihoon nods again. “I had to,” he confesses. “Isn’t it hilarious? I laughed the whole time I was ordering it.” They snicker quietly together under the watch of their hosts, who don’t seem to understand why a tie covered in Jihoon’s face is so funny. Junhui isn’t even sure himself why it’s so funny, but he can’t stop laughing, and he can’t imagine a better tie to have in his possession. He’ll really need to learn how to tie them now.

“I’m going to wear this,” he declares proudly.

“You cannot wear that,” Jeonghan tells him with an aggravated grunt.

“Why not?” Junhui pesters. “What’s wrong with it?” Jeonghan groans.

“Whatever,” he scoffs. “It’s time to give the most important present of the day, so just give Seokmin whatever lame thing you got him and I’ll be right back.” Without another word, he sprints out of the room and down the hall toward the front door, so Junhui has no option but to comply.

As predicted, Seokmin is completely fascinated by the dollar bill origami. He’s in the middle of fashioning a tiny boat from one of the fake bills provided in the kit when Jeonghan returns very clamorously. “Say hello!” he shouts, and the three of them look over to see him cradling in his arms the tiniest golden retriever puppy Junhui has ever seen in his life.

“Marbles!” Seokmin hollers when he shoots to his feet, and there are tears in his eyes, blurring his vision when he dashes over to scoop the dog into his own arms. “Oh my god,” he whispers, fingers stroking the soft fur crowning its head. “She’s so tiny. Oh my god, I love her. I love you. Oh my god.” He pushes his face into the crook of Jeonghan’s neck and hooks an arm around his back weakly. The dog barks, and he starts crying harder.

Marbles prances around the table while they eat dinner, and Seokmin can’t take his eyes off her, can’t help but feed her little scraps of the turkey he so carefully prepared, eyes still teary. He’s always wanted a dog, Jeonghan said, always liked the name Marbles for a dog, and part of the reason they’d moved out to the suburbs in the first place had been so they could have one, but they kept getting sidetracked. He’d begged the neighbors to house her for the time being to keep it a secret, which is why he wanted her out as soon as possible, and when Junhui watches him smile fondly at Seokmin over his glass of wine, he thinks he’s certainly got his good points even if he only shows them when he wants to.

After precisely one glass of wine and a single Christmas movie that Seokmin says must be viewed at all costs, Junhui and Jihoon hit the road back into town, still warm and festive. The sun is sinking now, and it’s still behind Jihoon, catching him at his corners and edges, the best silhouette for light to find. He tries again to think of that song he’s sure he knows, but it still evades him. He’s convinced Jihoon would know exactly what he’s talking about.

“Are you free on New Year’s Eve?” Jihoon breaks in suddenly. He has his fingers looped through the handle of his mug, tapping the beat of the song on the radio on the porcelain, and he keeps it up even when he talks.

“Far as I know, yes. Why?”

“Will you come over?” It’s interesting that he asks when he must know Junhui only has one answer in stock.

“Sure.” Jihoon hums.

“Great. Can we make a pit stop at the liquor store?” It takes a few moments for the question to register, but when it does, Junhui is more than a little confused.

“Are those questions related?” he asks skeptically. “Why do we need to stop at the liquor store?”

“I’ve always wanted to drink a whole bottle of champagne by myself,” Jihoon explains, vision cast longingly out the window. He looks picturesque as always, more scenic than the scenery. “Champagne is a designated New Year drink, so I may as well do it now.”

“A whole bottle?” Junhui sputters. He throws a glance Jihoon’s way, notes his stature. Very small, very susceptible to oversaturation. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“You don’t get to tell me one of my lifelong wishes is a bad idea.”

“I do and I am,” Junhui says, then sighs. “But I’m still going to enable you. We can stop by the liquor store.” Jihoon cheers, and Junhui cracks a smile without meaning to.

They don’t leave the liquor store until they’ve battled it out over what size bottle to buy. Junhui insists on a smaller one just to be safe, and Jihoon whines that there’s not as much satisfaction in emptying a smaller bottle on your own. Junhui has a lot of arguments to use, like how the bubbles make the alcohol enter your bloodstream faster and champagne has a higher alcohol content than regular wine and it’s also more expensive, but he settles for very stubbornly maintaining that the satisfaction comes from finishing the bottle and not from getting alcohol poisoning, so size doesn’t matter. Eventually, with a dissatisfied frown, Jihoon surrenders, but only on the condition that Junhui pays for it. Junhui is happy to do anything if it means he doesn’t have to watch Jihoon void his guts due to inebriation.

On the 31st day of December at 7 o’clock in the evening, Junhui finds the parking garage behind Jihoon’s apartment complex predictably full, even 514’s perpetually vacant guest spot featuring an occupant for only the second occasion Junhui has ever witnessed. Thankfully, nobody’s been bold enough to nab the 412 spot, so Junhui can finally feel like a decent rule-follower when he parks and makes his journey inside. He carries with him a bottle of sparkling grape cider in a plastic bag, his own festive beverage for the evening. Jihoon guffaws when he sees it.

“Is this grape juice?” he crows as he admires the label in the elevator, turning the bottle over carefully in tender hands. “Are you fifteen?”

“It’s _sparkling_ grape juice,” Junhui corrects, “and I’m being responsible.” Jihoon raises his eyebrows. “Don’t give me that look. I don’t know what your tolerance is like. You could be eating the floor after one glass, and who’s gonna stop you if I’m fucked up, too?” Jihoon rolls his eyes and shoves the bottle back into Junhui’s hands.

“I’ll have you know I hold my alcohol like a champion,” he says boldly, leading them out of the elevator and to his front door. The key is jammed into its slot with vigor and twisted so violently Junhui’s convinced it’s broken, but after one brute shove, the door comes open, and the key slides back out in perfect condition. “You’re concerned for nothing.”

“We’ll see,” Junhui says when he kicks his shoes off. “Somehow, I don’t feel like I believe you.”

Jihoon does nothing but shrug and venture deeper into the apartment. It seems different today, but Junhui can’t quite put his finger on why. The curtains, maybe? Are they a different color? Or maybe it’s the blanket on the couch. It seems like it might be folded differently. Or perhaps it could be that Junhui is an idiot who’s thinking too much and seeing too little and he needs to just go join Jihoon on the couch before he makes this uncomfortable.

He watches Jihoon settle back into the cushions with his bottle and a very fragile-looking flute and follows suit, though he hasn’t brought a glass. Since he was younger, he’s been drinking this stuff directly from the bottle, and he’ll be damned if he stops now. The moment he’s situated himself, he feels a very cold glass circle being pressed onto his thigh.

“Will you open this for me?” Jihoon asks hesitantly, maybe even a little shy, and he’s not quite looking into Junhui’s eyes. Is he embarrassed? Junhui laughs harder than he means to and takes the bottle fully into his hands, chilled glass stinging his palms.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” he says, and Jihoon scrunches up his nose and eyes him dubiously.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” Junhui lies with a smug grin, peeling away the foil at the end of the neck.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this; is he forgetting anything? His thumb is firm over the cork and the bottle is so cold in his hands, little metal tab is cold too when he goes to twist it, and he just prays he remembers what he’s doing enough not to spill champagne all over Jihoon’s carpet. Slowly, slowly, he twists the bottle and tugs at the cork, very gentle and very timid, and at long last comes a decent pop. The cork falls into his hand, and he hoists the bottle up with pride in excess. “Piece of cake!”

“Sure,” Jihoon scoffs, flipping on the television. A few of the concerts for which New Year’s Eve is notorious have already begun, packed crowds of patrons already wasted singing their hearts out to the year gone by. “You looked terrified the whole time you were doing it.”

“Excuse me?” Junhui gasps. “You didn’t even know _how_ to open it.”

“I knew you were laughing at me!” Jihoon spits, remote shaking in his enraged fist. “You are so—”

“Stop right there,” Junhui barges in, shoving the opened bottle into Jihoon’s free hand and forcing him to drop the remote and grab it with the other as well. He smiles his most glittering grin. “Drink your juice.”

“Call it what it is, Junhui,” Jihoon says with an exhale, plucking the bottle from Junhui’s grasp. “Grown-up juice.”

“Drink your grown-up juice.”

So Jihoon does. He pours himself a nice, tall glass and starts sipping from it while keeping his eyes on the television. Junhui can’t help but notice the way he closes his eyes after the first sip and nods, the way his lips sit on the rim of the glass, the way his face glows against the backdrop of a darkening world. It’s too much. Junhui feels himself gulp and figures he better open his own drink before his throat gets too dry.

Hours draw on. Junhui paces himself very carefully to ensure he won’t go thirsty, and Jihoon drinks a little slowly as well, though it seems to be out of habit or maybe lack thereof. Junhui’s thankful for having purchased the smaller bottle after Jihoon finishes his first glass and seems a little more tired than usual, and he’s also thankful Jihoon doesn’t seem to be the belligerent type. He’s not sure he would be able to take him in a fight.

When a concert performer hits a particularly important note with glaring sharpness, Jihoon groans and grabs his head, turns the volume on the TV almost all the way down, until it’s just a whisper of background noise under a thick blanket of stagnant air. “So bad,” he mutters, returning to the glass he’s been nursing. Junhui isn’t sure exactly how much he’s had to drink because he’s admittedly been paying more attention to the television, but he knows it’s more than just a little, knows Jihoon’s speech doesn’t sound quite as crisp as usual. “I could have done that way better,” Jihoon continues bitterly, glass resting just below his bottom lip. “It should have been…” He hums a little bit to search for the pitch, sings a few bars of the song with blatantly incorrect lyrics, and hits the note in perfect tune, shimmering while he holds it out.

“Hey, that was really good,” Junhui tells him with a firm pat on the shoulder, and Jihoon smiles a content grin, leans his head back onto the couch. “You should—hey, cut that out.” He swats at Jihoon’s hand, raised to his arm and scratching at the spot where Junhui’s pretty sure his tattoo is. “It’s not gonna heal if you scratch it.”

“It’s already healed!” he hollers, swatting back. “Look!” He yanks the neck of his sweater much further down than it should go, and he’ll probably resent himself for stretching it so grotesquely in the morning, but sure as the sun in the sky, the tattoo is there and looking fine, ink still crisp and black. He covers it again after only a second and lifts his glass again. “Isn’t it cool? Seung… kwan did it for me.”

“I know,” Junhui says. He doesn’t feel like telling Jihoon he has the name wrong. Sober Jihoon probably knows what it is. “I was there, remember?”

Jihoon eyes him dubiously for a minute before saying, “Yeah, I guess you were.” After only a second, he raises his hand fiercely into the air and shoots up straight. It’s a good thing his glass is almost empty, otherwise he’d surely have spilled something. Junhui sends up a quiet prayer of thanks to some unknown deity somewhere. “You!”

“What about me?” Junhui inquires unsurely. Something about the way Jihoon is looking at him is doing funny things to his heart that haven’t been done to it in a long time.

“Your tattoo,” Jihoon reminds him. “Show it to me.”

“What, no ‘please’?” Junhui asks to distract himself from the idea he’s about to pull his pants down.

“Please,” Jihoon adds, slightly irritated, and then Junhui has no excuse not to comply.

He very quietly pats his past self from his college days on the back for deciding to get it decently high on his thigh, then curses his past self from this morning for wearing briefs that obscure it partially. What he should do is be mature about this, but he’s so disgustingly nervous even his ninth grade self would be embarrassed to be seen with him, so he wiggles the waistband lower as gradually as possible. Jihoon’s eyes are fixed intently on the growing expanse of skin, patient and expectant, and Junhui wishes he were not so acutely sober so he wouldn’t have to pay as much attention to how painfully hard his heart is trying to escape from behind his ribs. Once he’s got them low enough, he pulls the hem of his briefs up just slightly and lets out a tense sigh.

“There it is,” he announces lamely. It must not be enough for Jihoon, because he grabs a belt loop and pulls fiercely in the direction of Junhui’s knee, shoves his underwear in the opposite direction to make a bigger window. Once most of his thigh is fully exposed to the open air, Jihoon sits back and whistles.

“Wow,” he says, then leans in to poke at it. His fingertips are icicles tracing over the dashed lines between each star, drawing goosebumps on Junhui’s skin in places they don’t even touch. “It does look like two little guys,” he muses softly, eyelids low and lashes long. “Cute.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Jihoon’s eyes are on his face in a flash, unexpectedly clear and shiny, and they stare at him for too long before flitting back to the image on his leg. He looks back and forth between for a while before cracking into a smile.

“That’s funny,” he says.

“What’s funny?”

“It’s the same,” he explains, but it doesn’t clarify anything. He gives his finger one more clumsy run over Gemini. “The stars.” Then he lifts his hand to Junhui’s face and it’s somehow even colder when it touches back down, somehow hot and electrifying and deathly frigid at once. “And then you have them up here, too.” He traces the arcs of freckles swooping over Junhui’s face, across his cheek toward his ear, up from his lip to his forehead. “A rainbow,” Jihoon mutters, barely coherent, “and a moon.”

Junhui thinks for a while about how he should respond to that and eventually decides on saying, “Your hands are cold.” He expects Jihoon to withdraw them, but he doesn’t, just apologizes and keeps tracing the same patterns languidly. In a moment of boldness, Junhui takes them into his own, cold blistering against the heat of his palms. Something feels right and good, and that same thing feels terrifying and new, and for a single charged second, Junhui does not know anything in the world. Without warning, Jihoon pulls his hands back and busies them giving himself a refill, and Junhui feels like he’s had a vital organ taken from him.

“What time is it?” Jihoon asks, taking another sip from his glass. Junhui pulls his pants up and pulls out his phone to check the time, face red and burning. Why does he feel like he just got rejected somehow?

“It’s 11:48.” Jihoon hums and swirls the liquid in the flute, watches it spin in a mesmerizing whirlpool of bubbles.

“It’s almost next year,” he surmises, still surveying the contents of the glass like it’ll turn up empty if he looks away for a second. His eyes stay fixed there when he softly says, “I’ve always wanted to have a New Year’s kiss.”

After 33 years and roughly one half, Junhui has forgotten how to breathe. Something is crawling around his lungs and making itself comfortable, stretching around his esophagus and telling the air to stay out, creeping to his heart and making it beat all wrong. He doesn’t know whether he wants it to leave or not, doesn’t know whether it’s helping or hurting more. He takes a swig of juice to busy himself and finds with dismay that he’s run out.

“Do you,” he begins, and he has to wet his lips to get more out, “want me to give you one?” Jihoon looks over in the middle of taking the drink, eyes dull but still beautiful.

“No,” he says. Junhui’s spine is gelatin. “You don’t have to.”

“What if I say I want to?” Junhui doesn’t know where the courage to say that came from, and he can’t look anywhere but Jihoon’s eyes because he thinks he’ll drown if he doesn’t. The room can’t possibly be as hot as his body thinks it is. Jihoon’s gaze is cold, wordless, impossible to interpret.

“I won’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re handsome,” Jihoon tells him, and Junhui is caught somewhere between explosion and implosion, melting and freezing, death and rebirth. “Friends don’t kiss each other.”

“They can,” Junhui insists against his better judgement. He’s too insistent, he knows it, and the way Jihoon is looking at him confirms it. He wrinkles up his nose in protest. He’s so cute without trying, Junhui mourns.

“I’m so sick of the taste,” he whines, turning his glare to the nearly-empty glass clutched in his pretty fist. “I don’t want it. You drink it.”

“You’ll be mad at me tomorrow if I drink it,” he assures, as much as he knows he could use it. “Just finish it. This is your dream, Jihoon.” The bottle is being thrust toward him before he’s reached the end of his sentence, wiggling furiously until he takes it.

“Finish the rest,” Jihoon groans. “It’s _gross_ and I don’t want it.”

“It is not—oh my god.” He swishes the bottle around to test, puts it up to the light and looks inside as best he can. “Jihoon, there’s like nothing in here. Give me your glass.”

Jihoon hands it over readily. “Will you drink it? For me?” Rather than drinking anything, he tips the bottle and spills the rest into Jihoon’s current supply, bringing the level up a single centimeter and no more.

“Just drink it,” Junhui orders gently, putting the glass back in his hand. Jihoon grabs it without persuasion despite his adamant refusal to drink a drop more. “You’re so close. If you don’t finish this, I know you’ll be mad tomorrow.” Jihoon frowns but takes the glass back and tips the liquid down his throat anyway. He’s so uncharacteristically docile, and Junhui doesn’t know quite how he feels about it. He almost wishes he would fight back.

“Ugh.” Jihoon shudders once his glass is finally empty, lifts it high to prove its emptiness, and sets it very carefully on the coffee table, sideways instead of on its proper bottom. “Finally.”

“You did it!” Junhui cheers with a halfhearted fist. He’s starting to get a little tired, and Jihoon looks even more so, but he throws both hands in the air and whoops loudly.

“I did it!” He leans back in satisfaction, tiny smile on his lips, head lolling over the arm of the couch. “I’m awesome.”

“You’re awesome.” The people on the television screen tighten up around each other and turn their faces to the sky, mouths framing numbers as they all count down in enthusiastic unison. A large ball of glass and light lowers steadily toward them, and the numbers come louder the closer it gets, culminating in the entire crowd screaming “Happy New Year!” at the top of their lungs.

“Happy New Year!” Jihoon chimes along with them, turning to Junhui energetically and flinging his arms open.

Junhui doesn’t know what controls his body, but it isn’t his brain, isn’t anything to do with him. His arms are their own machines, hands creatures with individual thoughts, reaching forward and grabbing Jihoon by the shoulders as lightly as they can. And then he’s moving forward, in space, in time, and he’s moving and he’s moving, and after an eternity of moving, he bumps into someone else. Jihoon’s lips on his are so soft he almost doesn’t feel them, just a shroud of imagined concepts bundled into matter and slapped in front of teeth. Junhui lingers longer than he should, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. It feels like his first kiss but somehow even more juvenile, even younger and more delicate. It feels like kiss number zero, like he hasn’t even made it to high school yet and won’t know what to do once he gets there. Eternities later, new year after new year elapsed in his chest, Junhui withdraws and allows himself a breath.

“Happy New Year,” he says quietly. Jihoon blinks a few times and yawns.

“I’m so tired,” he groans.

After ordering Junhui not to leave, Jihoon stalks off to wash his mouth out and “get rid of this awful bubble taste,” have a glass of water, and go to bed. Junhui remains motionless on the couch until Jihoon’s flicked the light switch and shrouded him in inky blackness. He reclines back after an immeasurable wait, staring at a ceiling he can’t see, looking for a sky that’s locked beyond. He’d love to count the stars right now, but there’s no point. Even if he tears the roof off and sees the real sky, he’ll never have enough to get his mind quiet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy hooooooooo we're back with another chapter. i thought i'd be too busy to get it out so soon but it turns out i'm fucking awesome and good at everything. that's a joke don't drag me in the comments  
> ANYHOW thank u for reading the chapter! i hope u liked it. it is almost february (SUPER almost february it'll be feb for me in like 15 mins) and as we all know february is the month of LOVE and i assure you i am bringing the love. u want to be here for it trust me. or don't. make good choices  
> a thank you to all of u who read and have been reading since the advent of this tale, and another thank you to anyone else joining in for giving me a chance here. i'm very grateful to all of u for caring to see what bullshit i've scribed now  
> once again i say thank you for reading! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and hopefully i'll see you all again next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever heard of that Aurora Borealis?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just preface info if u haven't gathered already this story is set in the united states and not korea or anywhere else

There is a weight pressed against Junhui’s chest, warm and alive, moving with slow and even breaths. Don’t open your eyes, he tells himself. He knows what he’ll see if he opens them. Eyelids peacefully closed, hair lying in subtle curls above a smooth face. Lips parted to make way for pretty breaths, that single freckle like the North Star just near the corner of one eye. He’ll shatter the illusion if he dares open his eyes, but he can’t go on like this forever, can he? Lying on his side, blind in darkness? The weight against him starts to melt back into his body without warning, putting a funny pressure on his chest that makes him feel like his lungs are made of paper and his stomach is made of lead. Wake up, he tells himself with a sigh.

His face is smashed against the arm of the couch when he cracks his eyes open and exhales through his nose with a long whistle. Slowly, very slowly, he turns his head to the side until he’s staring up at the ceiling, leaving a bright red splotch stinging over the entire right side of his face where he’s peeled it from the leather. There’s no one here, just the popcorn on the ceiling and the hum of the heater, and his arms are empty, stiff from being thrown in awkward angles over the sofa, sore from carrying himself through dreams he can’t have. That is exactly what he’s just experienced: a dream that belongs to someone else, a slice of some alternate reality six universes away.

Junhui doesn’t know what he’s waiting on, but he won’t move from this spot until it happens. Somehow, he doesn’t feel like dragging himself up from the cushions. He keeps his vision focused skyward, up at the clouds he can’t see, and his focus doesn’t come back down until he feels something settle down on his feet with its full weight, shooting sparks of pain through his ankles.

“Morning,” Jihoon says from his seat on Junhui’s legs. Either he doesn’t realize where he’s sitting or he doesn’t care, because he makes no move to find another spot, only settles down more and takes a sip of coffee. He’s using the mug Junhui got him, and it looks every bit as right in his hand as Junhui expected it would. Junhui wonders if he’s drinking the coffee he got him, too. Whether he is or not, it smells good, and it’s making his stomach feel conspicuously empty.

“Morning,” Junhui returns as nonchalantly as he can despite the agony crackling up his tibias. “How’s your head?”

“Not terrific,” he says, eyes dead, and takes another hesitant sip. “Question.” He adjusts a little to face Junhui and creates a disturbing friction between his calves. The sensation in his legs brings him closer to death, but the view keeps him anchored past its grasp. Jihoon’s eyes swirl like the contents of his coffee cup, dark and liquid and curious. “Did I really drink the whole thing?” His eyes flick past Junhui’s head at the empty bottle perched on the end table, dark glass glinting in the stripes of light coming through the window.

“You don’t remember?” Jihoon shakes his head cautiously, keeps his gaze locked in place.

“Some things are fuzzier than others,” he admits. “I can’t remember if I finished it or if you took it and finished it for me.” Junhui chokes on his own breath.

“Took?” he stammers, pushing up onto his elbows. “You _wanted_ me to finish it for you. You forced the bottle into my hands.”

“So I didn’t…?” His eyebrows are furrowed when he trails off.

“No,” Junhui promises, “you did it all by yourself. I made you drink the rest.” He offers a determined thumbs up, and Jihoon replies with a weary smile and a wearier sigh.

“That’s not very responsible of you,” is what Jihoon tells him.

“You’re saying I should have denied you your dream?” Another heavy exhale.

“I guess not.” He readjusts and leans back against the seat, head falling backward to stare at the ceiling. “Thanks.” The way the column of his neck slopes when he sits like that is more things at once than Junhui has ever been able to handle, more of that scenic humanity he’d love to have his camera around for. He thinks he brought it but left it in his car; foresight has never been his strongest suit. Jihoon shifts his weight again, and Junhui very narrowly avoids releasing a strangled cry from his throat.

“I don’t know if you realize this,” he begins, drawing Jihoon’s attention in the form of a lazy turn of the head, “but you’re sitting right on my ankles, and it doesn’t feel great.” He frowns for a second like he’s not quite understanding, but when he shifts again and feels the bones beneath him, his eyes blow wide and he springs to his feet immediately. Junhui floods with relief so strong he thinks he might cry, pulls his poor legs in close to his chest.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jihoon demands. He sounds much angrier than Junhui thinks he needs to considering he’s not the one who was just used as a seat. Junhui arches an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t really a big deal,” he says curiously, “but I just figured I should let you know.” Jihoon opens his mouth to say something else, but his delicate lips pause when a low rumble surfaces somewhere in his stomach and tints his cheeks. Junhui would almost laugh if his stomach didn’t produce the exact same sound not three seconds later. “Do you have anything to eat, by any chance?” he asks sheepishly.

“Not really,” Jihoon confesses. “I have a little cereal and half gallon of milk, but I haven’t gone shopping in a while, so there isn’t much.” Junhui heaves himself up from the couch.

“Should we go somewhere, then?”

Jihoon wonders for the entire walk to the car whether there’ll be any place that’s open today, grumbling in denial no matter how much Junhui assures him someplace will be but coming along nonetheless. While they drive around in search, Jihoon holds the camera case securely in his lap like he seems to always do, and it hits Junhui in a soft wave how much he’s grown accustomed to the sight, how silently fond. If only there were some way to immortalize this in his mind the same way he can freeze frames of time through the lens. Maybe he’ll find one someday.

After a decent length of searching during which Jihoon’s complaints only increase in frequency and volume, they finally find a small diner proclaiming itself as open and wander in with ever louder stomachs to find it absolutely barren excepting one lone employee who sits bored in a booth, phone in hand and fingers tapping madly. The sound of the bell attached to the door sends him to his feet so quickly he bashes his knee into the table with an audible smack, phone clattering on the tabletop as it’s abandoned. Junhui is about to ask if his leg is okay, but he bustles over to greet them at the door with uncommon speed, pleasant smile dominating his features.

“Welcome!” he says brightly. “What can I do for you?” No indication of pain or even the lack of enthusiasm that had riddled his features just moments ago, nothing but a huge grin and welcoming eyes.  Junhui was a server once in high school, only for a few months, and he knows what this kid’s day is going to be like. He’ll be here for at least four or five hours, either because he’s a new hire who couldn’t get off or because there are universal forces at work against him, and he’ll likely leave with twenty bucks after a bleak stretch of eternity containing somewhere between zero and three tables. Just the thought is a kick to the gut.

“We’d like a table for two, please,” Junhui tells him as gently as possible, arm curling around Jihoon’s shoulders without purpose or intent. He realizes once his fingertips have come to rest on Jihoon’s opposite shoulder that he doesn’t know why his muscles felt compelled to do that, but aside from a weird sideways glance, Jihoon doesn’t make any protest or shrug him off, so he leaves it in place while they’re led to one of the many vacant booths. The server—Chan, he says his name is—takes their drink orders quickly after they’ve assumed their seats and sprints back to get them like he’s never been so happy to work in his life. Junhui can’t help but feel like he’s watching his own child at work.

“So,” Jihoon starts quietly after their drinks have been brought out, “any reason you brought your camera with us into this restaurant?” He’s having coffee again even though he already drank it at the apartment, and the way his nose wrinkles when he sips from the off-white mug says it doesn’t taste quite as good. He’s also talking more softly than usual, probably acute awareness of the way his words will bounce off the walls and echo forever in a room so empty, and it makes his voice sound different, rustier near the corners, crawling vines on abandoned brick. Junhui would love to hear him sing something right now, but there’s no music on in the diner.

“It’s always good to have it,” Junhui tells him. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Jihoon scoffs, taking another bitter sip. “In case you forget what I look like when I’m eating?”

“You can never be too safe,” is all Junhui says, and he’s hit with the delayed notion that he might forget. A day might come when he can’t remember the way Jihoon’s eyelashes fan out while he looks down or the way his cheeks puff out when he chews, the way he holds his fork, the way he brings a cup to his lips to take a drink. Maybe they aren’t important details, but it feels like a tragedy to forget even one. The thought shoots straight to his hands, makes them pull his camera out of its case without thinking and align it with his eye.

“Really?” Jihoon asks irately, seconds before the sound of the shutter stirs the air. It comes again a moment later when Junhui captures a perfect shot of Jihoon rolling his eyes. He has a strange sense of nostalgia for it despite not twenty seconds having passed since taking it, and he’s close to choking on his own heart before Jihoon cuts back into his thoughts. “That reminds me,” he says, chewing at his lip. “Did you show me your tattoo yesterday?”

“Yes,” Junhui tells him, setting his camera gingerly down on the table. He watches Jihoon’s face curiously, desperate to pick something out of it, but coming up empty as ever. “Did you forget that, too? I’m not pulling my pants down in this diner.” Jihoon chuckles, airy and thick, rattling and resonant. There should be a musical term for the way Junhui feels it in his ribs.

“No, I was just making sure I didn’t dream it,” he says, and Junhui works hard not to think about the implications that might come with being dreamt about. “I remember.” Jihoon’s hand finds his own face, sweeps a shallow curve from his upper lip to his forehead, face tilted in a strange sideways smile. “It matches your stars.”

Something about hearing that again makes it feel so much different from the first time, something about the reality of sober Jihoon doing it juxtaposed against the fantasy of drunk Jihoon saying the same words. It feels more concrete and honest to hear it in the light of day, feels more like the little brown dots across his face are something beyond what they are, special and beautiful and worth noting. He’s never liked them much, not nearly as much as he’s liked stars, but having Jihoon tie a string between the two makes him feel like he should, like he should have all along, and he regrets every time he wished they weren’t on his face at all. All of a sudden, the air is too sweet and he’s choking on it, drowning his lungs in something too thick to be called oxygen and too thin to be called anything else. He’s saved from suffocation when Chan arrives with their food and he can keep his mouth busy.

Jihoon’s meal of choice is an omelet, and he looks like he’s enjoying it, small nods and short breaths through nostrils accompanying each bite. Junhui attempts to be as covert as possible when he pulls his camera back into hand, but Jihoon’s casting him a bitter glance before he’s even gotten it to his face. It doesn’t stop him from taking the picture anyway.

“Honestly?” Jihoon groans, dropping his fork to the table. Junhui takes another picture on impulse. The lighting is too good to pass up, the angle too perfect. Maybe he’s just imagining it. “I’m eating eggs, Junhui. I really don’t see why this needs to be preserved for posterity.”

“Artist’s eye,” Junhui says, tapping at his temple with his pinky finger. “Wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Jihoon unfolds his arm and stretches out his hand in front of Junhui, palm up and expectant, graceful fingers uncurled. He really does have a lovely set of hands, Junhui thinks, larger than he would have expected with slender fingers and long, smooth fingernails. His knuckles are a small and even mountain range overlain by a blanket of skin. The way his wrist curves is nice, too, subtle and almost artful, and Junhui realizes very rapidly that he’s been spending too much time admiring the form and not nearly enough analyzing the purpose.

“Give me the camera,” he says when Junhui’s face betrays nothing but confusion.

“What? Why?”

“I’ll take pictures of you eating and see how you like it,” he explains, wiggling his fingers. The movement is mesmerizing. “Give it here.”

“No way,” Junhui gasps, clutching the device closer to his chest. “You don’t know how to handle her.” Jihoon cocks his eyebrow.

“If you give it to me right now, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” he proposes, moving his hand again impatiently. The longer Junhui watches, the less capacity he as to form the word _no_. Perhaps it’s a tenderness that comes with age. Jihoon gives a satisfied smirk and twinkling gaze when Junhui sighs and reluctantly places the camera in his hand, and Junhui admits that it’s probably just him.

Jihoon poises the camera before his face and takes aim, slow and steady. Junhui feels a little bit like he’s being strangled, nervous sweat dewing on his skin. He’s never been uncomfortable on this side of the camera as far as he can remember, but he feels like he might die right now, feels like he’ll burn into ashes and get blown away if Jihoon keeps staring at him through the viewfinder like that. He’s been staring unusually long, and it’s driving Junhui nuts because he can’t understand why, doesn’t know what Jihoon is looking for or if he’s finding it. Hesitantly, Jihoon moves his head to the side, exposing one eye.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he begins cautiously. “How do you take the picture?”

Of course Junhui laughs; he can’t help it. He laughs so hard he can’t explain which button it is, flailing his hand around while Jihoon moves his finger among the buttons and waits for an affirmative signal. Eventually, he makes it to the correct one, and Junhui is calm enough by then to give him a thumbs up, mouth still stretched wide in a grin that’s starting to hurt his cheeks. Without further ado, Jihoon is tapping the button energetically, giving almost no pause between the shutter sounds.

“Hey,” Junhui warns, “you’re taking way too many.”

“Isn’t this what you do?” Jihoon asks impishly, taking another sly picture. “Take a trillion pictures of nothing?”

“No,” Junhui huffs. “What I do has craft and method. I’m sure none of the pictures you took even look good.”

“They all look great,” Jihoon promises, snapping another.

“Let me see them, then.” Junhui extends his hand, but Jihoon doesn’t give the camera back. He doesn’t take any more pictures, either, just stubbornly maintains his hold.

“You can see them later,” he says.

“Well, that’s my camera anyway, so you still need to give it back,” Junhui reminds him.

Jihoon has just opened his mouth to speak when Chan materializes beside the table and says, “Would you like me to take a picture for you?” Junhui feels a pang in his chest for how terribly incorrect he’s been in reading the situation, isn’t sure whether he should just agree to stave off the awkwardness or tell him they’re really just fine. He watches Jihoon transfer the camera into Chan’s hands wordlessly.

“Thank you,” is what Jihoon says, and Junhui can do nothing but stare at him in shock for a solid few moments. “What’s wrong with you?” Jihoon asks irately, grabbing his shoulder and tugging him forward across the table, narrowly avoiding getting syrup on his coat. “Get in the frame and smile.”

So Junhui does. He settles his elbow on the center of the table and leans until his ear is directly beside Jihoon’s and does his best to smile even though he’s sure it’ll look awkward and forced when it comes out in the picture. The hum of Jihoon’s breathing beside him is silently deafening, keeps him from hearing the sound of the shutter when Chan clicks the button, and Junhui hates himself for being this grossly nervous, hates that Jihoon always makes him the most nervous man on the planet. Is this what Frank Sinatra meant when he sang the line, _You make me feel so young_? Junhui certainly feels like he’s back in the deepest trenches of his youth.

Fortunately, Chan possesses the innate wisdom to give the camera back to Junhui rather than return it to Jihoon’s treacherous hands. He clicks through the pictures, and while his expression doesn’t look as stiff as he expected, his ears definitely look as warm as they felt, as they still feel. “Let me see,” Jihoon commands, and Junhui is very careful not to let the camera come anywhere near his grasp when he turns it around to show the screen.

Jihoon pores over the image for a long time, gaze sharp and observant, before his lips slide into a subtle crescent, dimples just barely pressing into the skin near the corners of his mouth. “It’s better when it’s not just me,” he says like he knew it all along, and Junhui’s heart thrums alongside the monotone melody of his voice, low and solid and blunt and simple. Not being alone is the whole point anyway, isn’t it? Being isolated in a box is lonely even if the box only has two dimensions. Junhui hasn’t thought of it like that very much. “By the way,” Jihoon interjects, shattering the fragile understanding he’d been building, “do you have a passport?”

“I do,” Junhui says curiously. He must have blacked out and missed something. “I was supposed to leave the country three years ago and ended up not having to go, though, so I haven’t used it.” He doesn’t know why his mouth feels compelled to relate that useless detail, but Jihoon just nods and lets him and doesn’t wait for Junhui to ask why he’s asking.

“That’s lucky, then,” he muses. After a long and confused stare, he asks, “Do you think you’ll be able to get a few days off near the end of this month?”

“Probably.” Looks like Junhui will have to ask after all. “What is the reason for these questions, again?”

“Well, I know it’s a little sudden,” Jihoon mutters, sipping from his mug with disdain once again, “but I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights, but you can’t really see them after February, which I didn’t realize until recently, so we need to go really soon if we’re going to see them.” Junhui’s face falls to blankness.

“So, what, we’re just going to drive up to Canada and check them out?”

“Well, fly, ideally,” Jihoon says. “I have money saved up specifically for doing things on my bucket list. I can cover everything.”

“Are you sure?” Plane tickets aren’t cheap, especially on short notice. Neither are hotels or meals or anything. Traveling as a whole is not cheap, he realizes the more he thinks about it.

“I’m sure,” Jihoon promises. “I like having you as company, Junhui.” Junhui’s heart is stupid and it hears what it wants to, writes in its own subtext and sings its own overtones. It beats fast and makes sitting feel like exercise.

“Well,” Junhui coughs, “I guess we have some planning to go do?”

Junhui pays, and he hurries Jihoon out of the diner with urgency after leaving a crisp forty dollar tip on the table. Just when he thinks they’re home free, he hears the clatter of the door being swung open with incredible force. Nice kids are so predictable.

“Sir!” Chan calls as Junhui yanks open the driver’s side door. He raises his fist in the air, bills crumpled within. “I think you left more than you meant to leave!”

“Keep it!” Junhui hollers, lowering himself into the vehicle. “It’s for you!”

“I really can’t take this much, sir!” Chan shouts, almost whines, and he starts walking toward the car with a little too much purpose. Junhui tells Jihoon to buckle up and roll down his window, then waits until Chan has bridged half the gap.

“Happy New Year!” he yodels, then whips out of the spot faster than he’s ever performed any action in a vehicle since he got his license in high school. Were the parking lot not so absolutely desolate, he surely would have scraped up the sides of at least a few other vehicles, but luck is on his side today, so he guns it out and back onto the main road, spares a single glance back to see Chan still standing alone in the lot, confused and abandoned, cash in hand. Junhui smiles in spite of himself. Hopefully the kid’ll get himself something nice with that money.

“That was pretty generous of you,” Jihoon notes absently, drawing circles on his own leg.

“I’m a pretty generous guy,” Junhui says, and Jihoon snorts. “Don’t laugh. It’s true. Besides, he was all alone and he even took pictures of us. He deserved it.” Jihoon hums in agreement and nods, lets his hum slowly merge itself with the quiet beat of the radio.

“I’ve got a question,” he says without much of a lead-in, eyes forward and unblinking.

“It’s weird for _you_ to be asking so many questions,” Junhui tells him with a smirk. Jihoon blows out hard through his nose.

“If you get to do it, I get to do it.” A pause. “Did you kiss me last night?”

Junhui would have liked to say that he wasn’t really thinking about it at all and was actually very close to forgetting it ever happened, but he was always raised to be honest, and he’d be lying if he said his lips didn’t still vaguely sting, chest didn’t still harbor an uncommon sort of soreness around all the most tender spots, vision didn’t continue to flit to Jihoon’s lips whenever idle. Against his better judgement, he glances at them again now, and they are unfortunately still very perfect.

“Can’t remember if you dreamed it or not?” He sees Jihoon nod in his periphery. “Yeah, I did.” Honesty is a virtue, he reminds himself, even if that virtue occasionally makes you feel like your bones are made of putty and your organs are elastic. “You said you always wanted a New Year’s kiss.” Jihoon hums again; he loves to do that as much as Junhui loves to hear it.

“Thank you,” he says, and Junhui’s insides are tied up in all sorts of ribbons and bows. Gratitude hadn’t been nestled anywhere in the realm of expectation, and he doesn’t know how he feels to receive it, only that he’s even less calm now than he was before. Jihoon’s expression is hard to read when he can only see it from the side and has to focus on other things, and Junhui genuinely can’t decide whether he’d rather have had Jihoon bring this up when they were facing each other head on or if he’s more content to pretend he can’t be seen if he doesn’t look anywhere but the road. “You don’t need to do anything like that, though. Seriously.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I wanted to, Junhui almost deludes himself into thinking he wants to confess, but the sun is hanging too high in his eyes for that. He’ll save it for another time, a time when he can throw his words to the moon and trick himself into believing they lose their sound on the way up, let himself imagine their meanings get so tangled between the stars that it ceases to matter whether he’s said anything at all. A time like that will come, he’s sure.

“I guess I won’t, then,” Jihoon concludes readily. “But thanks again.” The knots inside pull just a little tighter, and Junhui thinks he feels pieces of himself falling apart and back together. He wants this drive to be over.

The details of planning are simpler than expected, and within just a few days, everything is booked and decided and ready to go. Junhui doesn’t take any appointments for the 22nd through the 25th of January, makes sure to double and triple check he hasn’t got anything booked for those dates already, and waits for them to creep up. They come quickly, much more quickly than he’s accustomed to dates approaching, and by the time he’s caught wind of the number on the calendar, he’s barely packed a thing and the flight is tomorrow morning.

“You’re the worst,” Jihoon informs him unhelpfully from the opposite side of the bed as he shoves another hastily folded shirt into his suitcase. Since it’s an early morning flight and he lives just a little bit closer, Junhui figured they should both sleep here to avoid extraneous travel on the way to the airport, but Jihoon’s presence is hurting a lot more than he expected while he struggles to pack for the excursion. It’s only four days, so he doesn’t need much, but every time he glances up to see Jihoon lying on his bed, he gets distracted and forgets what he has and hasn’t packed yet. How cruelly beautiful is the view.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbles, staring at his suitcase intently, unsure of what he’s looking to find. “Have I packed socks yet?”

“Yes,” Jihoon sighs.

“Are you sure?”

“I just watched you put them in,” Jihoon groans. “Don’t you trust me? Why would I lie about that?”

“You want me to have cold feet?” Junhui guesses. He spots the pairs of socks while he finishes saying it, situated snugly in the corner. “Christ, do you think I’m forgetting anything? I can’t keep track.”

“You’ve packed socks,” Jihoon recalls aloud, slowly, like he’s thinking about what comes next. “Have you packed underwear?” Junhui’s eyes dart around until they fall on the bundle.

“Yes.”

“Shirts?”

“Yes.”

“Pants?”

“Yes.”

“Shoes? Coat?” Junhui frowns.

“I’ll wear those to the airport.”

“Toiletries?” Jihoon asks, calm and orderly. He stares at the ceiling like he’s reading the list off it, ticking the boxes one by one until they’ve safely reached the bottom. “Do you have lip balm? Deodorant? Did you pack your camera?” Who even calls chapstick ‘lip balm’, Junhui wonders, before realizing he hasn’t packed his camera and would be very wise to do so. He snaps his fingers and tucks it safely inside the suitcase, and when Jihoon can’t think of anything else to check for, he zips it closed and hopes he’s done his best.

It is a grand mistake to tell Jihoon they can share the bed because the couch is ridiculously uncomfortable, but Junhui has always been a man of much generosity and little forethought, so this is what he tells Jihoon, and thus how he finds himself lying wide awake most of the night, stranded on an island with nothing but a starless ceiling and every thought he’s ever had about how nice it would be to have someone splitting this mattress with him, how nice it would be to fall asleep to the sound of another set of lungs holding onto life and wake up to the very same melody. Painfully ironic how that particular sound is what’s barring him from slumber, soft and soothing though it is. Don’t think about Jihoon, Junhui tells himself. He tries. He fails. He prays he doesn’t pass out driving to the airport in the morning.

Luckily for both of them and every other motorist chancing the roads, they arrive safely at the airport, and after a zombie-esque stalk through security and an uncomfortable wait at the gate, he falls dead asleep the moment he’s in his seat, a dreamless blanket of darkness that only cracks when Jihoon taps him on the shoulder and instructs him to fill out his little customs form. Junhui is more than slightly disoriented when he wakes up, takes longer than he should to realize what he needs is a pen, gets thrown for a loop when he notices that he seatbelt is buckled and he doesn’t remember buckling it. Jihoon probably did it for him, he would rather not think, and he curses when the pen he finds is out of ink.

When they stagger into the hotel, Junhui has nothing on his mind but falling onto the bed face first and lying there until he’s earned back every second of sleep he’s missed, but his growling stomach throws a wrench in his beautifully crafted scheme. Jihoon’s laugh echoes mercilessly in Junhui’s exhausted ears when he heaves himself back to his feet and drags his way back to the elevator. He thinks he remembers a restaurant across the street, and Jihoon rests a palm on his back to guide him there without falling down. Everything outside seems to blend into the same shade from the sky to the concrete, all but Jihoon, who stands in solitary hues all his own. Junhui’s back is hot where his hand sits, but he’s too tired to be sure he’s not just imagining it.

All he remembers from their meal is Jihoon’s voice. “It’s not even noon,” he tells Junhui, and he’s smiling, but he looks a little less than peaceful, maybe just a hint worried. “You can’t take a nap so early in the day.”

“I’m tired,” Junhui is pretty sure he says, interrupting himself with a yawn. “Let me sleep.” Jihoon sighs. Junhui’s restless brain lets him think it sounds fond.

“Fine.”

The sun is brushing against the western horizon when Junhui extracts his face from the pillow it’s been smashed into while he slept. It’s been a long time since he’s taken a real nap, especially such a long one, and he’s completely overcome by that bizarre feeling that he’s missed his own wedding and twenty years of his life thereafter. He’s pulled back into the present reality by the sight of Jihoon’s outline on the edge of the bed and the sound of the TV, though the words aren’t quite making sense to him yet. Jihoon turns to face him when he hears the rustling of the comforter, thin smirk on his face.

“Morning,” he says dryly. “It’s August 15th ten years from when you went to sleep. You missed another world war and three terrible remakes of movies you love.” Junhui snorts.

“Damn,” he curses, and he neglects to mention what a lucky thing it would be to have Jihoon outlive his sentence by nine years. He’d sleep forever if it would make a difference. “Guess I’ll just have to go back to sleep.”

“You’re the worst,” Jihoon tells him for the second time since yesterday. “You’ve already abandoned me for the entire day, and now you want to abandon me more?”

“Sorry,” Junhui says, and he the little sting in his chest tells him he means it more than he’s letting on. “I’m just so tired.” Jihoon flops onto his back and levels Junhui a concerned gaze.

“Why?” he asks. This is a good angle for him, would be a terrific shot if Junhui had even an ounce of energy to take his camera out.

“Didn’t get enough sleep.”

“Why not?” Junhui eyes the way Jihoon’s body drapes itself over the plane of the mattress in a series of dips and swells that are stunning even when they shouldn’t be. This is why, he would love to tell Jihoon. You are why.

“Dunno,” he lies instead. Jihoon doesn’t look at all satisfied, but Junhui rolls over onto his back and sits up straight just in case he feels like pressing for more. “Well, since I left you alone all day, should we go do something?” Jihoon drums his fingers on his own chest thoughtfully.

“Let’s have dinner and take a look around the shops near the hotel,” he decides at last. “We can go see the lights tomorrow when you’re rested.” All it takes is one look at the singular bed in the room to let Junhui know that he will be equally ill-rested tomorrow, but he agrees anyway.

There’s a bus from the hotel—a real tourist trap they let themselves fall into—that takes them right to the best spot to check the lights out, a 50-minute ride that drops them off for an hour to check out everything, take all the pictures they want to take, absorb every second of those lights in the sky they’ll only cross paths with again if they make themselves do it. It’s bitingly cold even before they exit the bus, and Junhui is purely dreading how frigid it’s going to be once they’re in the open air, but Jihoon bouncing his knees excitedly in the next seat over takes his mind off it just a little bit.

When they step out onto the snow-packed ground outside, soles crunching deep into the thick layer of white, it’s somehow even more freezing than expected. Junhui feels parts of his soul shrivel up and wither back within him. He’d spend longer lamenting the demise of his extremities, but Jihoon clamps an icy hand around his elbow and pulls him forward with the excitement and urgency of an elementary school kid who’s just realized it’s a straight shot to base and they’ve got good odds not to be tagged.

Above them, the lights are already there, dyeing the inky blue vastness over their heads with bright ribbons of green that fade out softly in some spots and drive hard edges in others. Jihoon hasn’t tilted his chin down a single degree since his feet dropped off the final stair, and it’s leading Junhui’s vision up, too, until his neck is craned to offer a full view of the sky. Jihoon keeps pulling and pulling and pulling until they’ve reached a spot almost clear of trees, and he takes a deep breath once they make it there, grip still viselike on Junhui’s arm as they both gaze heavenward, silent and awestruck.

It really is amazing to see, that minutely shifting blend of pitch darkness with magically bright green. Something about it makes Junhui feel small and invisible, insignificant and featureless, an unshapen lump of clay in a workshop the size of the universe. The sight of it doesn’t feel real, just a painting of a phenomenon that might occur if the planet were lucky enough to have the right conditions for it, a hypothetical picture of the beauty a perfect world would allow. Jihoon’s fingers dig into the muscle around Junhui’s elbow a little further.

“It’s so gorgeous,” he whispers, amazement dancing on the border of reverence. “It almost seems fake.” Junhui agrees with all of it, and when he turns his head to see Jihoon, he agrees even more.

The green highlights painted on the slopes of his face are more than anything Junhui has ever seen in his life. It’s less that he wants a picture of this image to hold onto forever and more that he wants to replace every memory he has with what he’s seeing right now, more that he thinks his eyes are finally doing what they were crafted to do. He can’t look away and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to do anything but grasp at the straws of the man next to him until his fingers curl with arthritis. He grabs his camera without thinking, taps it a few times, and Jihoon flicks a glance his way.

“Take a picture if you want,” Jihoon tells him softly, yanking him back to where he is. “Of me or the lights or whatever. I don’t care.” He looks back up at the sky, eyes shining with green and something else, something more. “Make sure you get a picture of yourself.”

Once he’s taken an eternity’s worth of pictures of Jihoon (he thanks god for the low-light functions cameras have these days) and another plethora of the aurora stretching out above them, he decides to try getting himself in the shot, turns the camera around and takes the best aim he can, presses shoot and hopes for the best. By the time he reseals it in its case, Jihoon has long stopped holding his arm, but Junhui can still feel the phantom pressure there, the sensation of five separate fingertips clinging for a purpose unknown.

“It’s unbelievable,” Jihoon says while they stand there, necks aching and limbs losing heat.

“Yeah,” Junhui agrees dumbly. He’s sifting through his thoughts more slowly than he’d like, is very delayed in realizing Jihoon is still talking about the sky.

“I want to see the stars, too,” Jihoon tells him, voice no more than a whisper above the chill of the night. “I want to go camping and see them. I’ve never gone.”

“We can do that when it gets warmer,” Junhui promises. “In a few months. We’ll go.” Jihoon nods beside him without speaking, puffing out a breath that condenses on the air and lingers for a while.

Together, they stay for a long time, watching the sky and its snailish crawl from aimless form to aimless form, gradual shifts in bands of light that only add up once you’ve watched enough. An hour is a terribly long time to be out in this kind of cold, way too long, Junhui thinks. Even with a view that takes your breath away, it’s too long, and he can tell by the numbness that permeates up to his calves. But in Junhui’s case, there is another view, a sight to be seen to his side, and he would gladly freeze to death to hold it there just a moment longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS UPDATE TOOK TWICE AS LONG AS THE LAST ONE i don't have an excuse i just fucking suck. i hope u enjoyed reading it anyway. i'm putting my full hearts into this fic and i will do my very best to deliver absolutely as much love as possible before this special month of love is over i promise. things with school are getting a little wilder but still i will do my best.  
> thank you to everyone who's been here since the beginning, and thank you to everyone who's just joined us!! i hope you're having a great time coming along. also thank you to everyone who read this chapter or even gave this a passing glance. i'm very grateful to all of you for even giving me a chance. i will do my best!!  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and i'll see you at the next update! happy valentine's day!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To dance is to love.

Since he doesn’t receive many phone calls to begin with, Junhui forgets that his phone doesn’t work out of the country, and it is only once their trip has concluded and he finds himself with nine missed calls—six from Jeonghan and three from Seokmin—that he recalls. Even if he didn’t have that context, he’d still be able to gauge Jeonghan’s anger the following morning while he stomps toward Junhui’s desk by nothing but the sound of his footsteps. Severely enraged, he would conclude.

“You asshole,” is the first thing Jeonghan spits at him upon arrival. What a lovely greeting. “What’s the deal with ignoring my calls all weekend, huh? Did you die?”

“I was in Canada,” Junhui explains with a sigh. “What did you need?”

“Seokmin was making lasagna, so he wanted you to come over, but you didn’t bother to answer either of us.” Jeonghan frowns after he says it, the frown of someone taking in words too late, someone who’s ignored the answer to his own question. “Why were you in Canada?” he asks at last, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Jihoon wanted to see the northern lights, so we went to see them.”

Jeonghan frowns again, deeper, and it’s different this time. This is the frown of someone who’s been asked to solve a puzzle but doesn’t believe they’ve been given all the information. This is the frown of someone who’s heard an answer that doesn’t make sense given the way things are understood to be, doesn’t quite add up with the rest of the numbers in place. This is the frown of someone who thinks they’ve been lied to, who’s been suspecting it for a while and is finally sure.

“Alright,” Jeonghan says, forcing himself further into Junhui’s space. “It’s time you told me the truth.”

“What truth?” Junhui asks, as if he doesn’t already know what Jeonghan’s trying to force out of him.

“You know what truth,” Jeonghan hisses. “You and Jihoon. Your relationship.” He leans in closer, and behind the frustration in his eyes is something akin to benevolent concern. Junhui hates to acknowledge he understands why Jeonghan cares. “It’s obvious that there is something beyond just friendship with you two.”

“I don’t know why you refuse to believe me,” he says. When Jeonghan sighs, he sounds tired, so tired, a man so ravaged by fatigue he can hardly hold himself upright anymore. He sounds more tired than Junhui’s ever heard him, the final breath of a weary star before it collapses, and Junhui gets it. He’s tired, too.

“I’m your friend.” Don’t be so serious, Junhui would like to beg him. “I just want to know what’s happening.”

“I’ve already told you,” Junhui insists through gritted ribs and a clenched heart. Jeonghan doesn’t buy it, and Junhui knew he wouldn’t. He doesn’t really need him too. All he wants is for him to stop asking and go away, and after a brief and highly disappointed stare, he does.

Of course there are things that need to be admitted—Junhui is big enough to acknowledge that, knows himself well enough not to deny—but Jeonghan is not the first person who needs to hear them, not when Junhui is far too old to be avoiding certain words in his own brain yet still undeniably doing it, still cautiously skirting the edges of his vocabulary that cut a little too close to the cliffside. He knows he’s falling even if he refuses to watch the ground getting closer, and he’ll figure out how to deal with that when the time comes. In the meantime, he’ll just keep his lips sealed.

With the advent of February comes the deluge of all things pink and red and heart-shaped, and Junhui is prone to entertaining the notion of buying some of it, roses or chocolates or tiny stuffed bears, of giving any and all of it to Jihoon. He wonders if Jihoon’s ever gotten gifts like that on Valentine’s Day before, wonders if he would like to receive them at all, and he’s just certain he’ll find some of it in his shopping cart before too long if the month draws out as slowly as it seems like it’s going to.

The notion strengthens while they have dinner together on the fourth day of February, a chilly Thursday with light flurries intermittently threatening the stillness of the outside air. They’re eating at the same restaurant where they met initially for maybe the third time, and the walls are riddled with cheesy placards and promotions proclaiming the love in the air. Something about that mixed with the nostalgic fondness Junhui already has for this place makes his insides feel a little funny, ninth grade gym class funny, and he wonders if he’ll have to suffer with it for the whole meal or if chicken tacos will stave it off.

“Do you ever dance?” Jihoon asks very suddenly, almost in response to some offhand comment Junhui makes about how the weather doesn’t seem like it’s getting much warmer, but too unrelated to fit the bill. Junhui blinks slowly, lethargically, like he’s just been roused from a very lengthy nap and asked to find a derivative. He was never good at calculus to begin with. “Or maybe, did you ever dance when you were younger?”

“I guess,” Junhui says slowly, working hard to find Jihoon’s dots and connect them but not making much progress. “I was in my high school’s production of Beauty and the Beast: The Musical.” Jihoon snorts. Somehow, it’s especially endearing this time.

“What part did you play?”

“Ensemble,” Junhui declares proudly. “I got to dress as a fork.” He hoists his own fork in the air as a demonstration. Church bells the world over envy the enchanting way Jihoon’s laughter rings. “Why? Did you want to start a dance troupe? I think we might be a little out of the demographic.”

“Close,” Jihoon tells him with a thin smile, probing thoughtfully at the cauliflower on his plate. “Actually, they’re starting ballroom dancing lessons at a studio a few blocks away from my apartment, Tuesdays and Fridays. I’ve always wanted to try it.” He flicks his gaze back to Junhui. The low-hanging light above the table reflects miraculously in the lenses of his glasses, in his molten irises. Junhui commits it to memory. “Do you think you want to do it?”

“Well, if you want to do it, we’ll do it, right?” Jihoon frowns. “What time on those days? Does it start tomorrow?”

“Junhui,” Jihoon sighs. He seems tired and a little aggravated, though Junhui can’t place why. He rarely can. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to go with me.”

“But isn’t that the whole point?” Junhui’s heart is too small and fragile to point out that he’s got a lot more time in store to spend on things he wants to do, so he doesn’t, but it doesn’t quite feel like that’s what Jihoon wants to coax out of him.

“You don’t need to force yourself to do things just because I want to do them,” he says, stern, eyes hard behind their windows. “If you don’t want to do something, just say so.”

“I swear I’ll be sure to if the situation arises,” Junhui tells him, but Jihoon’s eyes betray a million layers of doubt, a million ways he’s not convinced. Junhui groans. “You don’t believe me? Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?” He knows, of course, why Jeonghan doesn’t believe him, which would be because he is deliberately concealing information from him, but at this moment, Jihoon doesn’t need to know that he knows that.

“It’s just unlikely,” Jihoon muses, still dubious, as he spears a shard of cauliflower with a little too much force. “That you’re fine with everything, I mean.”

“It is not,” Junhui insists. Can’t I just enjoy your damn company, he almost asks, but he bites his tongue just in time. “Besides, I want to relive my glory days as a fork.” Jihoon still doesn’t look pleased, but he lets it go anyway, lets a small little chuckle wheeze through his lips while he casts his gaze back down to his plate. Junhui didn’t bring his camera into the restaurant at Jihoon’s insistence, but what a grossly unfair thing it is that it would never be able to capture the subtleties just right even if he did have it. Jihoon hums a little with the music, and the hearts plastered on the wall sing with him. Junhui’s does the same.

The studio is three blocks away from Jihoon’s apartment, sandwiched between a gyro shop and a record store. Junhui’s never been into a dance studio before, but he gets the feeling this one was repurposed from something else, picks up a certain vibe from the awkwardly placed and unmanned front desk and the strange semi-wall shielding most of what’s behind. He can see from the moment they enter that the walls in the back are lined with mirrors, but even that doesn’t do much to detract from how unreasonably cramped it is to be a dance studio. Hopefully there won’t be too many people attending the class. Junhui isn’t too fond of a sardine scenario, and he’s sure Jihoon isn’t either.

Unsure of what else to do, they meander cautiously up to the empty desk. In the most childish parts of themselves, there must be a vague hope that someone will magically appear to tell them what to do once they get close enough, and Junhui nearly sheds his spine when that hope is validated as they reach the desk. A man springs up without warning from nowhere else but the floor, bright smile on his face under fiercely twinkling eyes. He looks between them expectantly, but Junhui is too shocked to accept his sudden appearance as reality, and Jihoon is beyond pale, so he ends up speaking himself.

“How can I help you?” he asks congenially, very much like a hotel clerk and not at all like someone who’s just risen from the floorboards like an urban zombie. Junhui is starting to wonder if he just imagined it, but the slackness still present in Jihoon’s jaw is telling him he didn’t.

“We’re here for… ballroom dancing lessons?” Junhui manages at length, and the man claps his hands excitedly, eyes creasing in glee. His smile is wide and almost blinding, and even if his face is a little babyish, the more Junhui thinks about it, the more he realizes he’s a pretty good-looking guy. A sleeveless top is exposing arms with a lot more muscle than Junhui is used to seeing, and Junhui would admittedly be a lot closer to thinking about them were he not still so taken aback by his surprise entrance.

“Excellent!” he crows, then bursts into a hearty laugh that nearly sends him back to the ground. Junhui flicks a glance at Jihoon just to ensure they’re in the same state of confusion and is satisfied when he finds Jihoon’s eyes looking completely lost above an otherwise stoic face. “Sorry,” the man continues, “I can tell you two are both…” He struggles for a moment before abandoning the word hunt with a wave of his hand. “You want to know where I came from, right?”

“Well, obviously you came from the floor,” Jihoon asserts with forged confidence. Junhui could almost laugh at how clearly he’s trying to make himself look less confused, but he quickly spirals into an internal crisis over whether it’s actually obvious or he just thinks it’s obvious because he spends so much time with Jihoon on his mind. He doesn’t need to remind himself how much time that is exactly, but it doesn’t help that the man before them doesn’t seem to notice the façade.

“Yes, obviously,” he agrees readily, dancing at the edge of laughter. “Well, anyhow, I’m sorry for surprising you. I’ve just been trying to prove to my husband that I’d be able to hear when someone comes in without looking.” Suddenly, the gold wedding band on his left hand stands out so much more, a beacon to follow as he waddles out from behind the desk and leads them into the proper studio. It makes sense—Junhui knows he and Jihoon are in a bit of a different spot than others around their age—but something still stings.

In the studio stands a small cluster of people, close enough to one another to converse but still very obviously sanctioned into pairs. It’s just as small back here as Junhui expected, but the little crowd gathered near the bar mounted on the mirrored wall seems like it’ll be just enough to fit so long as no one else comes. Their host shuffles them back toward the rest of the group and assumes a position near the opposite wall. After taking a brief survey of those gathered, he brings his hands together in a deafening clap.

“Evening, all!” he booms loudly, face still folded in an enormous grin. His arms spread wide, full wingspan, a welcoming hug to the room in general. “We’ve about reached capacity, so we may as well get started now, yeah?” The sound of his hand smacking into his breast resonates off every surface in the room, image reflected back from 10 different angles. “My name is Soonyoung,” he announces proudly, blowing a tuft of fading blonde hair out of his eyes, “and I’ll be your conductor on the train of dance.” He moves his hips in an exaggerated mimicry of samba, snaps his fingers wildly, and it’s just enough to elicit a few dry laughs from his tiny audience.

“He’s so loud,” Jihoon whispers, dead on all ears but Junhui’s, betraying the world’s most minute trace of irritation. Junhui has to agree. Something about him reminds him of Seokmin, though, and he can’t help but be a little fond.

“So, as I’m sure you are all aware, this is my dojo of dance,” Junhui watches Jihoon cringe, “otherwise known as Hoshi Dance Studio, but I’m sure what most of you _don’t_ know is that ‘hoshi’ is the Japanese word for ‘star.’” He gestures at the ceiling, and sure enough, it’s decked out with tiny stars just like the ones Junhui grew up with. It’s familiar and foreign in the same breath. “That means that tonight, you’re _Dancing with the Stars_.”

Before any of his spectators have a chance to react, Soonyoung falls into uproarious laughter, sinking to a squat and slapping at his own thighs. Definitely reminds Junhui a great deal of Seokmin. After an unruly eternity of lonesome guffaws, it begins to dawn on Soonyoung that he’s the only person laughing in the room, and when the realization hits, he stands back up promptly, wiping tears from his eyes, eyebrows lowered in disappointment. “What, nobody? Carrie-Ann Inaba? Bruno Tonioli?” He grows frantic in the lack of response, flings his arms wildly in the air. “Tom Bergeron? Nobody?”

“It was good,” some generous soul chokes out from somewhere to Junhui’s left, weak and unconvincing, tailed by a pitifully forced laugh. Soonyoung rakes a hand through his hair and expels a heavy breath.

“I appreciate you at least having the decency to lie,” he says somberly, looking up toward the cosmos he’s pasted onto the ceiling. His eyes shine like he’s about to cry, and for a moment, Junhui thinks he will, but he breaks into a cheesy grin again within a matter of seconds. “Well, let’s begin, shall we? Grab your partner and let’s give ourselves some room.”

Soonyoung transforms into a completely different person when he’s not hamming up his bunch of patrons. He’s professional and serious, moving each pair into a spot where they won’t bump into the wall or anyone else, still smiling, but undeniably more focused. Junhui’d been a little worried initially, but as he watches Soonyoung guide the rest of the students into their own respective corners, he starts to get a little more trusting, a little more excited. Soonyoung wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand when he returns to his previous position and claps again.

“Alright,” he bellows. “It’s our first lesson together, so we’ll start easy. The waltz.”

The CD player comes to life at a click from Soonyoung’s finger, buzzing loudly before jumping into the beginning of a slow tune conducted in bars of three, and then he’s demonstrating a basic waltz step for them, careful to highlight the point of his toes and aim of his feet. The steps he takes are very clean and precise, practiced as they ought to be for someone who makes a career teaching people how to dance, and Junhui can’t quite get his to look just as nice, but he’s close enough to get over it. Jihoon gets it a lot more quickly than he does, light on his toes, and Junhui is consumed at once by both boiling envy and undying admiration. He’s unfairly good at everything, even things he doesn’t realize he’s doing.

When Soonyoung sees that the majority have the basic step down, he instructs them to arrange themselves into their duos, illustrating both sides of the stance with the couple closest to him, an elderly couple both wearing glasses thicker than some novels Junhui’s read. They laugh and grumble while Soonyoung guides their arms into place, and he laughs and grumbles with them, smile shining on his face right until he’s arranged them into the most picturesque form possible and persisting even after. Junhui eyes the placement, a hand on the back and the other entwined, and he’s only halfway through processing how that’s about to have to be him when he feels an elbow digging into his ribs insistently.

“You’re leading because you’re tall,” Jihoon informs more than offers, turning to face Junhui and holding out his hands like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. Junhui mirrors him dumbly, less fastening himself into place and more engaging in some sort of abstract symmetrical dance. Soonyoung coasts up breezily, on his rounds to inspect posture and hand position, knowing glint in his eyes.

“Actually,” he begins quietly, “my husband is taller than me, but I still lead.” He takes matters into his own hands, grabbing the two hovering before him and melding them into one, fingers slipping into empty spaces until Junhui can feel his entire palm melting against Jihoon’s. Don’t get clammy, he prays when he feels his heart start to do some unusual things, lungs start to swell against their cage. For the love of god, don’t get clammy. Soonyoung pats their joined hands gleefully. “He’s a lousy dancer. It’s a matter of what works.”

“I’m not leading,” Jihoon restates when he walks away. “You’re doing it.”

“Why?” Junhui is halfway to resting his hand on Jihoon’s back, but he hesitates anyway, fingers hanging limply in the air. “You’re better at the steps than I am.”

“Because I don’t want to,” Jihoon grumbles. “I want you to do it.” Junhui begs his ears not to take that how they want to, but they pink despite his strongest wishes. “Just put your hand on my back already.”

Junhui does. He does it carefully, careful so as not to mess anything up but still quick enough to look natural. Even he isn’t sure what it is he’s scared to ruin, but when he makes it all the way, when he feels the fabric of Jihoon’s shirt beneath his palm and watches Jihoon look up at him, he sees everything.

He sees so many shades of perfection in a complex and immaculate spectrum that runs as far as Jihoon’s eyes take it, so many delicate facets vulnerable to devastation by an unpracticed touch. Junhui knows his touch isn’t nearly practiced enough to handle this, knows his hands are too rough and too warm, brashly melting artless dimples into a pristine sculpture of snow, but he’ll be damned if he lets himself let go. He feels sweat beading on his palm and he is so young again, a kid who’s lost but no longer confused, drowning in his own heartbeat and suffocating on a flurry of thoughts with a central theme. All he wants is for his lungs to remember what their job is and how to do it.

“Are we just gonna stand here all day, or are we going to dance?” Jihoon asks impatiently, and Junhui realizes he’s just forgotten all three parts of the world’s simplest step in the space of one second.

Gradually, he falls back into the groove, settles into a rhythm that doesn’t bring him to stomping on Jihoon’s toes even once. Desperate for a distraction from the task at hand, he shuts his eyes and forces himself to focus on the music. Lyrics started somewhere when he wasn’t paying attention, but the song seems to be the same one on loop over and over, so he listens carefully when it restarts its cycle.

The words aren’t happy, the tale of a lover stolen by an old friend during a dance. Junhui doesn’t know whether it’s fitting to have such a melancholy song playing on their first dance, but Jihoon starts to pick up on a few lyrics while they continue, singing along softly in little spots like _darlin’_ and _dancin’_ , and Junhui suddenly can’t imagine a more fitting song to share a dance to. He’d lose a million loved ones to a million old friends so long as it meant he’d never forget this sound.

After a few comfortable minutes of stepping back and forth to the somber tones warbling from the outdated speakers, Soonyoung decides it’s time to move on to bigger and better things, namely turning. He carefully demonstrates the angles to pivot, tapping his toes against the ground to show the correct orientation, dancing through a few bars on his own. Junhui is too scared to let go of Jihoon, scared he might crumble into dust, scared he won’t be able to grab back on once he’s released his grip. He holds fast through Soonyoung’s entire instruction, and he knows his palms are slick by now, but he’s hoping Jihoon will act like they aren’t.

When they make their first turn, Junhui finally gets the feeling that they’re dancing. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine they’re somewhere else, dancing because they want to dance and not because they want to learn. He can imagine Jihoon is smiling, imagine the hand in his is perfectly at home there, imagine there’s no time and no problems and nothing but this single golden moment. He lets his eyes fall shut, and it is a beautiful thing to imagine indeed, golden and glistening. If only reality had the endless luck of subdued daydreams.

“You’re hands are so warm,” Jihoon murmurs. It comes to Junhui’s ears through a sea, muffled and distorted.

“Oh,” Junhui says after too long, “sorry.” But he doesn’t want to be sorry. He wants it to be a good thing, especially since Jihoon’s hands are always so cold.

“It’s fine,” Jihoon assures him. “I don’t mind it. I was just saying.” That might be as close to being a good thing as Jihoon will allow it, and Junhui decides he can make do with that much. He tightens his grip minutely. When the hour comes to a close, all he knows is that he doesn’t want it to, never did to begin with. Tuesday cannot come quickly enough.

The following Tuesday is a second round of waltzing, and on Friday, they begin an introduction to foxtrot. Soonyoung is adamant in promising it’s not much more difficult than the waltz at its core, just a tad quicker, so even the elderly couple can do it just fine. There are a few other things different, like how there are four steps instead of three and how they take a slow-slow-quick-quick pattern, and most importantly, there’s a different song playing infinitely through the speakers, more upbeat and less emotional. Junhui won’t deny that he misses the other one, but Jihoon seems to like this one all the same.

Another difference from last week is the way Jihoon’s breathing seems to get a little ragged at times, hands seem to lose their meager warmth, face its color. Soonyoung calls for a five minute break, and Jihoon shuts his eyes immediately, lets them stay shut for a little longer than Junhui is comfortable with. He rubs his hand gently on Jihoon’s back and elicits a low hum.

“You seem a little out of breath,” Junhui notes softly. A thin and sparse sheen of sweat on Jihoon’s forehead is making his hair stick there in places, but he dabs it away before Junhui can think of doing anything about it.

“It happens sometimes, when I’m doing something active,” Jihoon tells him, eyes still closed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you alright?” Junhui asks. For a second, he thinks the unusual spike of worry in his tone is what brings Jihoon’s eyes snapping back open, but then his gaze is too odd, too curious, and Junhui doesn’t know what he’s looking into anymore.

“No,” Jihoon tells him at last. He stares hard for a while before it clicks in Junhui’s mind. That’s right, he recalls. He isn’t alright. He isn’t alright and they aren’t just two people who spend time together and they aren’t what Junhui wants them to be.

“Ah,” is all he finds the strength to say. Jihoon breaks into a snicker and smacks his shoulder harder than he needs to, knocks the wind out of and back into him. Junhui knows no number of years could ever tire him of the sight of that smile even if no one’s asking.

“Don’t be weird,” Jihoon says lightly. “Sick people get tired. Life is like that.” He squeezes his hand back into Junhui’s, and Junhui would do anything to forget the context and pretend he’s only doing it because he likes to. “I won’t let the foxtrot take me out.”

At the end of the rehearsal, Soonyoung orders everyone to have a stupendous Valentine’s Day, and it reminds Junhui that he impulsively bought a large stuffed bear at the store two days before. It’s white and soft, red heart stitched on the chest over where its heart would be if it were alive enough to have one, and it’s sitting on his bed while Junhui decides whether he wants to give it to Jihoon or not. On Saturday night, they agree on having dinner Sunday, and Junhui elects to keep the bear and pay for dinner instead to avoid maybe bridging gaps he’d be wiser to leave alone.

“I got you these,” Jihoon says when he gets in the car, tossing a medium-sized box of chocolates into Junhui’s lap. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Junhui picks up the heart-shaped container with one hand, runs his thumb over the curves in the bright red plastic. “You got me this?” He feels something like lead dropping through his stomach and taking his heart down with it, taking his skeleton and his skin and everything else.

“That’s what I said,” Jihoon states smoothly, buckling his seatbelt. Junhui pretends he isn’t swallowing both lungs and tosses the box of chocolates very gently into the backseat, then backs carefully out of 514’s guest spot and starts on the road toward the restaurant of choice with dangerously split attention.

He picked somewhere a little nicer than they would usually go in the spirit of the occasion, and the candles on the tabletop aren’t doing him any favors with the mesmerizing way they swirl around Jihoon’s irises ad infinitum, rings of light refracting through his glasses and coming back better than in original form. Junhui would like to trick himself into believing he’s hallucinating the way Jihoon looks like he’s descended directly from heaven, but he’s known himself long enough to know his eyes don’t often lie to him, not like this. The flowers adorning the walls bloom with envy when Jihoon smiles.

When dinner is over, Junhui is drowning in a nameless substance, clouded in mind and vision, and he’s so distracted he forgets he needs to take Jihoon back to his own apartment. Encouraged by the low tones as Jihoon’s voice blends in with a radio background, he doesn’t realize his mistake until they’re sitting in the parking spot reserved for his own apartment and staring at each other wordlessly.

“What?” Junhui asks when Jihoon’s gaze on him is unrelenting for minutes on end, and he looks back like he can’t believe Junhui is even asking.

“This isn’t my apartment complex,” Jihoon states very simply. Obviously not, Junhui almost retorts, and then he realizes _obviously not_. Idiot. Bumbling fool. He’d slam his head on the steering wheel if the sound of the horn weren’t likely to wake his neighbors.

“I’m so… Jesus Christ,” he stammers, clumsy hands struggling to work the key back into the ignition. “Just… good god.”

“Calm down,” Jihoon tells him, unbuckling his seatbelt for some reason Junhui is unable to trace, because obviously he’s not getting out of the car, right? “Can I come in?”

“Can you come in?” Junhui spouts back like a child learning words for the first time.

“Can I?” But Jihoon is already pulling himself out of the vehicle, and Junhui doesn’t have much option but to grab his chocolates and follow. “I didn’t get to see much of it last time because you were packing like a maniac.”

“There’s nothing maniacal about my packing,” Junhui huffs as he leads them into the building. “I’m a very methodical guy.”

“You tried to pack your toothbrush three times,” Jihoon reminds him. Silence falls when they reach the elevator, stodgy and awkward as it climbs slowly up the four floors to Junhui’s residence. Jihoon waits patiently behind while Junhui fiddles with the key to get the door opened, and Junhui wonders if Jihoon feels this nervous every time he comes to his apartment. Probably not, he concludes.

Jihoon lets out a low whistle when the lights flick on, and Junhui is suddenly overtaken by how mediocre the entire apartment is, from the curtains to the countertops and right down to the carpet. “Everything is so monochrome,” Jihoon observes, another painful nail driven into the coffin. “It’s like nobody even lives here.”

“Leave me alone,” Junhui grumbles, popping his box of chocolates open and eating one. He grimaces. It’s the kind with that weird minty gel in it. He’ll never forgive whoever thought it was a good idea to approve this filling. “I never got around to buying décor, and now I’m just used to it.”

“It’s never too late,” Jihoon assures him, wandering back toward the other rooms and flipping light switches as he goes, the soft pat of his feet over the carpet a bizarre and welcome sound. He hears the bedroom door creak from his seat in the kitchen and realizes too late that the bedroom door is the only one that creaks. “What’s this?” Jihoon calls curiously, and Junhui remembers very swiftly that a large stuffed bear with an unmistakable Valentine’s theme is seated atop his bed. He’s on his feet before he can think about it.

When he bursts into the room, Jihoon is patting the bear on its plush head, ruffling the silky fibers like one might with a child’s hair, thumb ghosting behind its large ears. There’s a fond smile stretching across his face that is heartbreaking in ways Junhui can’t even begin to describe, enchanting in a trillion worlds he’ll never see. “The bear is cute,” Jihoon muses softly, not looking away from it while he speaks. Oh, to be looked at like that, Junhui doesn’t stop himself from thinking.

“It’s yours,” Junhui blurts. “I got it for you.” Jihoon looks up hesitantly, jaw dropping slightly in shock.

“I can have it?”

“It’s for you,” Junhui tells him again before he can start to regret saying it. “It’s cute, so I wanted you to have it.”

“You’re such a weird guy,” Jihoon tells him, not for the first time, and it doesn’t seem quite fitting now, but Junhui won’t tell him he’s wrong. “But thanks. Nobody’s ever gotten me something like this before.” A suspicion tragically confirmed. Junhui’s heart aches for everything Jihoon deserves that he hasn’t gotten.

“Sure.” For a long moment, he watches Jihoon toy with the ears of the bear fondly, and against his better judgement, he says, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Stay the night?”

“I can loan you some clothes,” he says. Then he thinks about how long his legs are and how Jihoon’s are not at all the same, how broad his shoulders are and how Jihoon’s are not at all the same, and he realizes once again that he may well be one of the most idiotic men the universe ever produced. Jihoon guffaws loudly.

“Sure,” he says anyway. “I’ll stay the night.”

The shirt Junhui gives him to wear does nothing short of drown him endearingly, as if it wasn’t already hard enough to get his brain to shut up just knowing Jihoon is in the bed beside him. In an extremely unfair display, Jihoon falls asleep almost immediately upon climbing into bed, and Junhui is left alone a comfortable two feet away numbering the invisible popcorn off the ceiling like makeshift stars and kicking violently to keep from drowning in his own thoughts. He’s dragged back to the surface and plunged straight down again when he hears Jihoon laugh at something in his dream, light and airy, soft and hushed.

Thus, it is the middle of the night when Junhui is struck with three realizations. The first is that Jihoon’s laugh is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, and it’s nothing new. He’s likely known since he first heard it months ago. The second is that he seems to have dug himself into a deeper pit than he ever intended, a pit that looks like dimples and pretty hands, that sounds like gravelly phone calls and harmonies with the radio, feels like freezing cold fingers and a sweater that’s just slightly too big. This is nothing new, either. The third realization is that he has no desire to dig himself back out, has not ever had any, and will likely never have any in his life. Keeping with tradition, it is also nothing new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy howdy howdy. we're back again with another update. this chapter is neither long nor exciting, but i hope you enjoyed it anyway! i wanted to try to get the next one out before the end of february as well but that doesn't look like it's happening. oh well. also, for once i am not updating in the middle of the goddamn night!! hooray! i'll do my best to get the next chapter out soon. i don't think u will want to miss it :-)  
> thank you to anyone who's here since chapter one and is back now for the 7th time (has it really been 7 fucking chapters good god) and additional thanks to anyone who's jumping in at this point! i'm grateful to absolutely every set of eyes that's taken the time to read even a word.  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i hope you enjoyed the chapter, and i'll be back with another real soon!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen under an infinite umbrella of stars.

It’s early when Junhui wakes up, much earlier than he’s used to.  He can tell by the empty blue tint painting everything in the room in lieu of the strips of white light he usually sees filtering in through the blinds. Slowly, slowly, he heaves himself until he’s upright, back slumped in an arch that’s not as stiff as his mother always taught him to hold it, eyes fixed forward on the hazy navy wall. When they start to hurt from trying to decipher unwritten words, he rolls off the mattress and plods quietly to the bathroom.

The light burns when he flicks it on, bounces off white countertops and white tiles and white everything, last of all off that silver mirror that stands plastered to the wall, a window to what things are like already. Junhui stares at the reflection of himself gazing curiously back like an old friend or a new enemy, tries to figure out some of the features sticking out on that canvas of a face, to pin a description to the mess of what he sees. He takes in a deep breath and lets his brain start to rev its engines, search for words through the murky shadows of sleep still clinging behind his eyelids.

Is this the face of someone in love, he wonders as he watches the replica sit motionless on the glassy plane. Are these the eyes? Is that the nose? The early hour muck is doing weird things to his thoughts, coating them in plastic and numbing his hands to their bumps and edges, blurring their meanings like a fingertip swept through fresh ink. If this is the face of someone in love, does it deserve to be his? Has he seen it before staring back at him from a square of silver? It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t know.

Icy fingers find their way to his cheek to search for something, and Junhui doesn’t know what it is, but he wants to find it. It’s hidden somewhere, must be, under these tacky swaths of skin, beneath eyelids and purplish bags of exhaustion, behind the shadow of a nose and the short stubble of an overdue shave. Maybe, he thinks as he watches his hand guide itself, it’s behind these stars, as Jihoon calls them, these dark dots in patternless patterns, meaningless splotches in meaningless arcs. Maybe it’s somewhere between them, some reason to explain what and how and why, something to give him a hint or a clue or a path to follow. If it is there, he can’t find it. His palm falls flat against the cool countertop again, eyes return to their weary and fruitless pursuit.

The sound of footsteps reaches him too late. “Checking yourself out at this hour?” comes Jihoon’s voice, a line cast into the infinite waters to dredge him up from where he’s been sinking. Junhui sees him backwards, leaning against the doorframe with a slight grin, dimples deep and painfully present. Suddenly, the heavy feeling behind Junhui’s eyes is gone. When he looks, there’s nothing left in the mirror but two people, ordinary men, tired and devoid of any youthful glow they once had.

“Knocking doesn’t exist where you’re from?”

“The door is open,” Jihoon says around a yawn and an eye roll, drifting closer. He winds up at Junhui’s side, another set of eyes staring aimlessly forward, and Junhui pines for the parallel timeline where he can feel Jihoon’s arms wrap around him from behind. When he chances a look at Jihoon through the mirror, he finds those eyes already on his, feels it in the way his heartbeat spikes. “I didn’t think you woke up this early.”

“I don’t,” Junhui confesses, knuckling some of the clinging sleep out of his eyes. “But I did today for some reason.” Jihoon’s looking at him more intently than usual, and it prickles Junhui’s nerves, draws uneasy goosebumps up his spine until he figures out what the reason might be and his eyes shoot open. “Shit, do you need me to take you to work?”

Jihoon tilts his head and knits his brow endearingly, scratches at his neck and draws attention to the loose neckline of his shirt. That’s right. Junhui let him borrow one. He forgot, and now he’s remembering all too forcefully. “Oh yeah,” Jihoon muses, markedly calmer than Junhui would have expected. “I don’t have to go in today, actually.”

“I thought Stills and Fern didn’t believe in holidays.” Jihoon’s lips slide into a dry smirk, and Junhui’s follow obediently into a similar slope before he realizes they’re doing it.

“They believe in holidays,” Jihoon says, “just not weather.” Junhui arches an eyebrow, and Jihoon’s best consolation is a shrug. “I don’t get it either. The CEO’s birthday is the 15th, so we get it as a company holiday.” Junhui’s confusion goes unhidden. “Don’t ask me. He’s a weird guy.”

“Guess so,” Junhui concedes. Ensuing silence paints the air between them until it seems to take on its own translucent shade, thickening to paste the longer it sits, and Junhui’s lungs are on the very cusp of flooding with it when Jihoon exhales a short breath and dispels everything. He doesn’t feel quite like himself this morning; it must be a lack of sleep.

“I do need to go back to my apartment, though,” he admits, fingernails tapping the countertop. “I have to take my medicine.”

“Medicine?” Maybe that makes sense. Jihoon is so unwaveringly himself that Junhui never thought about it, never thought he needed anything to stay the way he is, but it’s obvious that he needs something. He’s not healthy as a horse like he always looks, and Junhui guesses he has to get his hooves from somewhere. “I mean,” he coughs, “I’ll take you. Do we need to go now?”

“Ideally.” Jihoon ghosts back toward the doorway and across the threshold, face losing its shades while he retreats back to the blue darkness. “I’ll go get my bear.”

The drive to Jihoon’s apartment is halfway over when he notices with confused irritation that Junhui’s brought his camera along, and it’s only once he’s pointed it out that Junhui notices the strap to the case slung around his neck. There’s a fuzzy memory of grabbing it before slipping out the front door and giving the key a clumsy turn in the lock that may not have even been successful, but Junhui’s too tired and distracted to focus on it. “I guess it’s a habit,” he supplies weakly, and Jihoon grumbles into the back of his bear instead of rebutting.

Jihoon’s setup reminds Junhui of his childhood, starkly similar to his grandmother’s own when he was still young: A light blue pill organizer with the days of the week on it in thin black letters, and small clusters of pills in varying sizes in each compartment barring _Sunday_ , which sits empty on its own. The lid over the _Monday_ section lifts with a hushed pop, and Jihoon dumps the bunch into his palm without fanfare, takes a sip from his glass of water and starts knocking them back one by one before Junhui can take a headcount.

“This reminds me of when I was a kid,” Junhui hums. Jihoon squints at him while he gulps another down. He’s only got one left in his hand, and it’s big enough that Junhui’s stress levels spike just thinking about swallowing it whole, but Jihoon gets it down without a problem and drains the rest of his water glass.

“Did you take a lot of meds when you were a kid?” he asks skeptically.

“Not me,” Junhui clarifies. “My grandma.” He waves his hand at the pale blue plastic still resting by Jihoon’s knuckles. “She had something just like that.” Jihoon snaps the lid back over _Monday_ , uniting it with _Sunday_ in an empty club of two, mouth in a thin line that looks like it might be attempting to smile.

“Does she still use it, do you know?” he asks, dry, and Junhui doesn’t know if he’s really curious or not.

“Well,” he decides to begin, “when I was in college, she, uh, died. Which is why I had to drop out, you know, because funerals are expensive, and then she had a lot of unsettled debts nobody knew about, so…” What chokes him up is the realization he’s definitely sharing more than Jihoon ever wanted from him, but the lump in his throat turns to cement when he chances a glance at Jihoon’s face and finds it pale and blank.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon says so quickly it takes Junhui three beats to understand it as words. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You didn’t know,” Junhui manages after a hard swallow, praying his eyes won’t water like he suspects they’re about to. Jihoon’s lips fall to a frown that’s clearly wanting to say something, but Junhui scrambles for something else to latch onto and pull them from this train to another. “Why haven’t I ever seen you take any medicine before?” he decides on. Jihoon shrugs.

“You don’t live here,” he ventures. “When you are here, you’re always asleep, since I take it when I wake up.” While Junhui nods, he fishes for another question.

“What’s it for?” he picks next, and Jihoon sighs a little before cutting himself off abruptly.

“A lot of things,” he says. “They’re mostly vitamins, but there are a few other things, to make sure my blood is thick enough to clot and I don’t get acid in places I shouldn’t have it. Exhilarating stuff.” He rattles the capsules around in their prison before rising to return the container to its spot in the cabinet. “I could tell you about all of them individually, but I’m sure you don’t care that much.” Alas, Junhui does care that much.

“I don’t think it would be boring.” Jihoon’s stare in return is cold and quite lost. “I mean, I kind of want to know.”

“Weird as always,” Jihoon calls him. He definitely sounds fond, Junhui thinks, or maybe his hearing really is going already and his ears have started doing as they please. “Maybe some other time.” For a fleeting second, Junhui thinks of making him promise, but Jihoon snaps his fingers and he’s moving again, off the tracks toward a different horizon. “That reminds me. When do you want to go camping?”

“Camping?”

“You said we’d go,” Jihoon reminds him. “When we were in Canada.”

“I guess I did say that.” Junhui can admit he remembers Jihoon far better than he remembers himself. Even now, the splashes of green are returning to him, dyeing Jihoon’s face back in the palest hue. “When it’s warmer, I guess. Maybe sometime next month.” Jihoon nods stiffly, chews gently at his bottom lip.

“We need to go when it’s clear,” he asserts. “I wanna see the stars. And the sunrise. When do you think it’ll be clear?”

“Do I look like a weatherman to you?” Junhui huffs. “How should I know?”

Jihoon surveys him silently for a few moments before concluding, “I’m sure I’ve seen a weatherman that looks like you before.” No chance for argument arises; Jihoon turns on his heel and marches to his bedroom, scooping his new companion up in his arms while he goes and leaving Junhui to do nothing but stare blankly after him and wonder just how long he’s been so foolishly enamored.

Friday evening begins the next unit of dance instruction, determined by Soonyoung to be swing. It’s faster still than the foxtrot and a little more complex, and Soonyoung tells the class upfront that they’ll be spending a little longer on it because it’s a little different and a little difficult. Junhui wants to act like he can’t hear how labored Jihoon’s breathing starts to get, can’t see the sheen of sweat that starts to glaze his skin, but not noticing is almost even more terrifying. Jihoon swears he doesn’t need to worry, but it doesn’t do much to stop him from worrying anyway. He sees his grandmother’s blue pill container when he closes his eyes sometimes, but he works hard to push it down.

By the time they start to round out the swing unit, Jihoon seems to be adjusting to the quicker pace a little more, going longer without needing breaks, taking deeper, more even breaths instead of short and spastic ones. As always, he gets the steps leagues better than Junhui does. Soonyoung ghosts up to them one night while they practice, kicking their feet around in time with the music, hands joined in a clammy jumble that they hold a little lower than they had for their first dance.

“You two are complete naturals,” he tells them. “You don’t even need me.”

“That’s not true,” Junhui says, though he knows as well as Soonyoung does that they’re only empty words. “We’re lucky you’re here.”

“No, no,” Soonyoung dismisses, “I mean it. You dance very well together.” He leans in close, like he’s about to share a universal secret. “And you know, they say couples who dance well together have happy marriages.”

Junhui opens his mouth, but he isn’t sure where to begin. Not only has he never heard that said before, but he and Jihoon are not a couple, and they are not getting married. Just the thought of having to clarify it drives a divider through Junhui’s heart and turns his throat dry, but thankfully, Jihoon picks up in his stead.

“I have never heard that saying before in my life,” Jihoon says blankly, abandoning the dance to focus all his energy on staring curiously at Soonyoung. Not a breath leaves Junhui’s lungs while he waits for Jihoon to make the other necessary corrections, but no matter how long he waits, they don’t come. Just as much as he doesn’t want to think about that too much and make himself idiotically misunderstand, he can’t _not_ think about it. If Jihoon’s expecting Junhui to be the one to right Soonyoung’s other wrongs, it’s in vain. There’s no way he can.

“Okay,” Soonyoung concedes before Junhui can descend into full panic, “maybe I’m the only one who says that, but it’s true.” His thumbs digs into his chest with vigor. “My husband and I are proof.”

“I thought your husband was bad at dancing,” Junhui recalls with narrowed eyes.

“He is,” Soonyoung agrees fondly, “but I’m good enough for the both of us.” He waves his hands frantically while he backs away, eyes already seeking his next targets. “Now, now, don’t let me distract you. Get back to dancing.”

“What was the point of that?” Jihoon asks under his breath irately, watching Soonyoung coast up to a pair on the opposite side of the miniscule studio who can’t be older than university students. Junhui shrugs in place of answering. As much as he’d like to sympathize with Jihoon’s impatience, Soonyoung still reminds him too much of Seokmin to do it in earnest.

“I think he’s just being friendly,” Junhui tries to amend, but the look Jihoon gives him says he’s not having it. Junhui gives him a tentative pat on the shoulder. “He’s a nice guy, Jihoon. I know you agree.”

“Doesn’t mean he needs to be so noisy about it,” he grumbles. “He’s just lucky he’s so great at teaching dance, otherwise I’d… Well, I don’t know. I’d do something.”

Laughter bubbles forth from Junhui’s lips, straight out of his chest, ribs quaking with each boisterous peal. “Stop laughing,” Jihoon hisses, slapping Junhui’s arm, but it has the opposite effect, driving the corners of his mouth higher and rending more rowdy guffaws from his lungs. He quickly becomes unable to stop himself, falling to his knees under the weight of his own laughter. In an instant, he grows acutely aware of the stares he’s receiving from his fellow mentees against a backdrop of syncopated swing music, and any remaining chuckles die in his throat. The only force saving him from instant death on the spot is the almost inaudible sound of Jihoon’s hushed laughter followed by a characteristic snort.

March is quick in coming, notably warmer than Marches here as Junhui has come to know them, and they make a reservation at a campground not too far away for the third weekend of the month, Friday night through Sunday morning. Neither has anything necessary for camping, so they’re forced to buy all they need. The split of costs leaves Jihoon with the tent and his own sleeping bag, and Junhui covers his sleeping bag and groceries to get them through the weekend. He settles on the most classic camping food—hot dogs and s’mores—and prays Jihoon doesn’t brutally hate either.

Thursday evening before they go, Junhui finds himself at the grocery store, carefully weighing the differences between two brands of hot dogs to decide which ones are less inherently deserving of hatred. Footsteps hit his ears, hurried and rushed, and it’s not until he’s already being accosted that he understands they were coming his direction.

His eyes meet a familiar grinning mug when he raises them from the nearly identical packages in his hands. “Oh.” Soonyoung is smiling just as brightly as ever, the exact same way he always does at the studio. The clothes he’s wearing are different, a thin pearl sweater and gray jeans, but he still gives off the feeling that he could burst into an energetic dance at any moment. “Evening.”

“I knew it was you!” he cheers more loudly than he needs to, and an elderly woman perusing the ground turkey sends them an irked frown. Junhui is starting to understand Jihoon’s beef. “My husband told me there was no way, but I was so sure.” A good thirty feet away, near the pasta aisle, a man with a basket full of groceries approaches slowly, fond smile on his face. Handsome. Tall. He must be the husband. “So,” Soonyoung leans in, surveying the general area closely, “where’s your partner?”

“Jihoon?” Junhui squawks. Soonyoung’s husband gets closer, and he’s even taller than Junhui is, the kind of good-looking you only see in magazines and movies. What a lucky couple, he thinks, and he tries very hard not to be bitter when he does. “He’s not here. I’m just buying groceries.”

“You don’t shop together?” Soonyoung gasps in outrage. His hand flits to the arm of the man who’s finally arrived at his side on impulse. “We always—sorry, this is my husband—we always shop together.” He turns to his spouse with a grin so nauseatingly sweet Junhui thinks he may puke out of envy. “This is one of the students that comes to my Tuesday-Friday class. I _told_ you.”

“My bad,” he sighs, grin stretching his lips. Gorgeous. Some people really do have it all. “Nice to meet you.” The basket transfers hands, and Junhui struggles to juggle one hot dog package away to free up a hand before his fingers are being crushed in a needlessly strong grip. “I’m Mingyu. I know it’s hard, but try not to let him annoy you too much.”

“I never annoy anybody. They all love me,” Soonyoung scoffs. “And don’t give me that look I know you’re giving me. I’m a joy to live with.”

“Shouldn’t I know better than anyone?” Mingyu’s eyes are dead, like he’s had his soul extracted through them, and Junhui can tell by Soonyoung’s stubbornly turned head that this is precisely the look he wants to pretend he’s not being given. “I’m going to go get the rest of the spices I need. I’ll see you at checkout.” Before he leaves, he gives Soonyoung’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and it’s all so grossly unfair.

“Anyhow,” Soonyoung resumes after a distressing nine seconds of watching Mingyu meander off, “I know I told you that one time the thing about people who dance well together, but I really think… How do I put this?” He grabs at the air for what he wants. “If you even do boring stuff liking shopping together,” and he brings his hands together with a loud clap. “You know?” Chronic meddling is one of those traits that Junhui’s always pinned on Jeonghan, and for the first time, he really can understand Jihoon’s aggravation just a smidgeon better.

“That’s all well and good,” Junhui says, turning his attention back to the hot dogs, “but you don’t need to be concerned. Jihoon and I aren’t married. We’re not…” He swallows the stinging in his throat. “He’s just a friend of mine.”

Silence sticks around longer than Junhui is comfortable with, but it doesn’t bother him until he hears Soonyoung humming, low and drawn out, decidedly suspicious. Don’t look at him, Junhui tells himself, but he looks anyway, finds Soonyoung peering at him with narrowed eyes and lips pressed into a flat line.

“What?”

“I get it,” Soonyoung concedes, swatting away the air in front of him. “Really. I do. I _know_ it’s none of my business, but I seriously don’t understand why you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—why would I be lying to you?”

“I don’t know, either,” Soonyoung tells him, “but you still are, so why don’t you explain?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Junhui insists, tossing one of the packages back to its brethren in frustration. His decision is made now, he supposes. “I promise you, I don’t have any reason to lie about this, alright?”

“Whether you have a reason or not”—the look on his face is driving Junhui nuts and he doesn’t even know why—“don’t doubt the ability of someone who’s in love to spot when someone else is.” Junhui looks into his eyes. They don’t look a bit like Jeonghan’s, but they certainly feel the same.

“Sure,” Junhui says with a heavy exhale. “I’m going to go finish the rest of my shopping.”

“Have fun,” Soonyoung tells him. His face looks too genuine for that to be as sarcastic as it seems. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

“Oh, actually, we don’t be there tomorrow night.” Eyebrows raise. “We’re going camping.”

“Are you now?” Don’t be so damn smug, Junhui is dying to yell at him, but there’s no sense in drawing the attention of the store’s every patron. “Have fun with that, too,” he says, and then he’s bustling down the aisle after his departed lover, leaving Junhui with nothing but the stinging cold package of hot dogs in his hand.

There’s no time for this. He needs buns. After a moment’s search, he locates the bread aisle and stalks forward with heavy steps.

They head to the campground in the middle of the morning on Friday, armed with the goal of taking a hike around before they have to set up the tent and wait for night to bring its cover. It’s in the mountains about an hour and a half north, and each passing minute brings such drastic changes in the scenery Junhui is sure they’ve entered a different world altogether.

An unusually warm beginning of the month tricked the trees into thinking spring had already come, and now they sit with fresh, baby leaves tentatively unfolding from their grayish branches. As they climb higher up the twisting road into the mountain, the trees transition from broadleaf to pine, tender green shifting to deep and dark, and it hits Junhui that he can’t remember the last time he went camping.

It had to have been when he was still in elementary school; he can recall his grandparents’ old dog being there, still lively and loud and incredibly lovable. They went in the summer for his grandparents’ anniversary, he thinks, June twenty-third, though he can’t quite put his finger on which anniversary it was. Their tent was leaky, let the morning dew in to form a pool inside while they slept, and they had to throw it away after, which is likely why they never went again. He can see his grandfather’s face like yesterday, smiling from behind a mess of a s’more, and the sound of Jihoon humming his own imagined tunes in the absence of proper radio signal is too much and not enough.

The employee at the check-in office is stunningly unenthusiastic, face a picture of gravity as he rattles off basic procedure at them, the locations of the bathrooms and what not to do around the wildlife, points with a lazy finger in the direction of their lot and tell them to have a great time in the least convincing manner ever mustered by a person. Back in the car, they putt a short ways further up the abomination of a road, past the restroom and shower facilities and a small pond housing nothing but a single confused duck, and finally stumble upon their reserved space, a little lot with a small fire pit overrun with leftover leaves from autumn.

Once Junhui’s fit his car snugly into the adjoined spot, they climb out and breathe in the fresh air: trees, bygone fires, not much else. It’s a refreshing change from the stale city air to which they’ve grown so accustomed, clean and green and light on the lungs. Junhui is raring to go the second his feet are on the ground.

“Slow down,” Jihoon calls when he starts marching in the first direction to strike his fancy. “We need to set up the tent first.”

“I thought we were going hiking.”

“We are,” Jihoon promises. “We’re just doing it after we set up the tent.”

“We can set up the tent later,” Junhui whines.

“Oh, can we? And when we get lost and have to set the tent up in the dark?” Junhui does nothing but stare for a long time.

“We won’t get lost,” he says at last. Jihoon scoffs.

“Do you know this campground like the back of your hand?” he spits. “We definitely might get lost, and I’ll set the tent up by myself if I have to.” For a rigid minute, they frown at each other wordlessly, and when the minute has expired, Junhui sighs and pops the trunk.

“We’re not gonna get lost,” he grumbles while he takes out the tent. “It’s just hiking.”

“At least humor me for a second,” Jihoon grumbles back, digging the assembly instructions out of the glaring red packaging. He pores over the pamphlet with intensity, flicking through the diagrammed pages once, twice, three times over, and at length, he looks to Junhui and says, “How the hell do you put this together?”

Assembling the tent is an undertaking. Every time Junhui thinks he finally understands what step he’s meant to take next, he proves himself wrong as soon as he tries to enact it, yanking them back to square one more than just a time or two. By the time they’ve managed to get it halfway erected, the sun has already long passed its peak in the sky, gradually inching along its path of descent. The longer the shadows of the trees begin to stretch, the more impossible it seems, and very large parts of Junhui are wishing he’d had enough foresight in Canada to tell Jihoon no even though he knows he wouldn’t be able to do it under any circumstance.

For the first minute after they’ve got it fully erected, neither can find the energy to go beyond staring in awe at the completed structure. “Is it done?” Junhui whispers, careful not to get too loud and risk breathing the tent back to dissolution.

“I think so,” Jihoon whispers back. “Should we test it?”

“How do we test it?”

“I don’t know, go inside?” That sounds reasonable enough. Junhui unzips the entrance with far more care than god used in creating the earth and crawls inside.

The tent is a decent size, he thinks, until Jihoon clambers in behind him, and then he realizes it’s abominably small, an anthill, a Petri dish, an atom’s worth of air trying to squeeze itself around two fully formed adults. He can barely breathe while Jihoon takes a look around at the too-close walls, the too-close ceiling, pats the too-close floor. “It’s kinda nice,” he decides, and Junhui could not be less inclined to agree.

“Let’s go on that hike now,” he breathes, squeezing himself back through the eye of the needle and into fresh air.

Junhui is tired of hiking and he wants to stop, but the problem is that he doesn’t know where they are. Another problem is that he refuses to tell Jihoon he doesn’t know where they are because he can already feel the look in his eyes, smug crossed with irritated. The most important problem is the sun, now dipping its toes below the water line and sliding in with a blanket of red, leaving them on a very tight schedule.

“Slow down,” Jihoon pants, and Junhui whips his head around to find him struggling to match pace, forehead damp with sweat. “Your stupid… long legs…”

“Sorry,” Junhui says, frantic, delivering himself a mental kick to the gut. “Do you want to take a break?”

Jihoon wheezes quietly while he approaches, dropping to a squat the moment he’s at Junhui’s side and pulling a half-empty water bottle from the drawstring bag resting against his back. Junhui accidentally watches his neck while he gulps it down, shiny with moisture and still desperate for breath. Something spikes him somewhere inside, but it’s all a little fuzzy. “Two minutes,” Jihoon heaves once he’s emptied his bottle, “and then we can go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest a little longer?”

“Can we afford to? We’re lost.” Junhui chokes on the smell of pine. How did he know? He’s just guessing, Junhui bets. He doesn’t know.

“We’re… we aren’t lost.”

“Well, we’re not, because I know how to get back,” he allows, stretching his legs back out and meeting Junhui’s eyes, “but you probably didn’t realize I knew, so you definitely thought we were lost.”

“You know where we are?” Junhui cries with a telling amount of enthusiasm, and Jihoon cracks a smile that kills him with one hand and revives him with the other. “I mean, obviously we were never lost. I know where we are.”

“If you expect me to believe that, you’re deluding yourself.” Without further delay, he starts taking purposeful strides due left of the direction they’d been heading. “Follow me. If there’s a bear raiding the car when we get back, you’re fighting it.”

Junhui wants to laugh, but he can’t, and it’s not the paralyzing fear of coming to blows with a bear that’s got his tongue caught. How, he would like to ask, could you have known? How could Jihoon tell he didn’t know? Was he watching him? On purpose? Was Junhui just obvious? Is he obvious about everything? Does Jihoon already know? Everything? And why is he always overthinking everything like he’s still fifteen? Junhui almost hopes there really is a bear waiting to devour him the second they get back, but it is universal law that he could never be so lucky.

Just before the sun’s final rays die around them, he’s able to get the fire lit via recollection of his younger brother’s advice from his bygone Boy Scout days. Jihoon whistles in amazement that might be mock, and Junhui is amazed in a very real way by how the flickering tails of the flame swirl in his irises through the lenses of his glasses, how everything always seems to swirl in them without reservation. Opening the hot dog package provides only a temporary solace from that line of thought.

“I don’t really like hot dogs,” Jihoon says as he roasts his third frank, “but I’m so hungry that I’m not gonna complain.” The fire is doing wonders to combat the cold night air settling in around them, but they’re still sitting close together, close enough that Jihoon’s shoulder still bumps into Junhui’s while they sit, elbow still does the same whenever he turns the skewer to get even heating. Junhui can only take so much.

“You have to eat hot dogs when you go camping,” he declares. “I brought s’mores, too.” The crackling of the fire is the only answer he hears for a while. “Jihoon, please tell me you’ve had s’mores before.”

“I have!” he huffs, reeling his third dog back in to sheath it in a bun. “I was a kid, though. Seriously little. I don’t remember if I liked them.”

Junhui hums. “I bet you liked them,” is what he means to say, but he instead says, “I bet you were a cute kid,” effectively freezing all his own muscles. In his periphery, he sees Jihoon stare at him briefly with a cocked eyebrow before shaking his head and taking a bite.

“I was the cutest,” comes his surprising response. “I’m sure I have some pictures somewhere. I’ll show you sometime.” Another bite. “But you have to show me yours.”

“I was a weird-looking kid.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The final bite. Jihoon cranes his neck to look at the stars, and the glow from the fire finds all the best spots to highlight. Where is Junhui’s camera ever when he needs it? “Well, let’s see about those s’mores, huh?”

S’mores are a mistake when it’s dark and there are only two people to eat them, and they are especially a mistake when you’ve forgotten how messy they are and the closest sink is an entire hike away. An easy half of the roll of paper towels they brought gets used while they try in vain to clean their hands, and even when they’ve done the best they can, a layer of tackiness still sticks around in the crooks between their fingers and the centers of their palms. Jihoon swats angrily at jeans, but his hands are still gummy when he taps Junhui’s shoulder.

“Is the car unlocked?”

“No, why?”

“I need to get something out of it.”

Junhui reaches into his pocket and feels for the keys, feels for the button that’s just a little smoother than the rest, gives it a gentle press and listens for the soft click of the locks. “Should be open,” he says, and no sooner has he said it than Jihoon is scurrying over to the vehicle and rummaging through the luggage in the backseat. When he comes back, his arms are occupied carrying a large bundle.

“Is that a blanket?”

“Yeah. So we can. You know.” The train of Junhui’s thought veers sharply south for a single second before Jihoon flicks his chin to the blackened sky dotted with distant glitter, catches some of the moon’s glimmer on the tip of his nose. “The stars,” Jihoon says. Obviously, Junhui reminds himself. That’s why they’re here. To see the stars. Nothing else.

“Yeah,” Junhui coughs. “Let me help you lay that down.”

Dry grass crunches under their feet when they clear sparse twigs from a large enough space to flatten the blanket to the ground, and it crunches more when they find seats atop it and recline fully. With the fire extinguished, the night is cold, much colder than the daytime temperatures had hinted, and Junhui fiercely regrets his lack of extra layers. Jihoon scoots closer beside him, slow breathing the only noise above the sounds of the forest around them and the muted calls of a particularly rowdy bunch of fellow campers a few lots down. His elbow rests against Junhui’s side and blooms a flower there, under the skin, but Junhui isn’t versed enough in botany to know what kind it is.

“They’re so pretty,” Jihoon mumbles, “aren’t they?” A low hum ripples the air around them. “It’s amazing without the light pollution to fuck everything.”

“Yeah,” Junhui sighs back, and it’s not that he doesn’t agree. They are beautiful. But there is something—someone—a tad bit closer far more deserving of the adjective. His eyes ghost in vaguely remembered lines over the shapes he used to know so well when he was ten years younger, between bright points a lack of practice makes him confuse. “This reminds me of college,” he sighs, thumbing at the stretch of blanket between them. “They set up a big telescope on top of the science building a few times for my astronomy class to do labs.” He whistles, short and pitchless. “It’s weird how they never change.”

Jihoon grunts in agreement even though Junhui knows it’s not weird at all that they never change, knows they’re changing too and he’s just too far away to notice. “Junhui,” Jihoon says, soft and without warning. “Can I ask you a favor?”

Junhui pretends he doesn’t feel his heartrate quadruple, doesn’t notice his most vital organ pounding away at its cramped cavity, desperate to escape. “Yeah?”

“Would you hold my hand?” What is hearing, after all? Junhui doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything.

“You want me told hold your hand?” he asks around a thickness in the center of his throat.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Jihoon mutters. Junhui couldn’t bring himself to laugh right now even to save his own skin. “It’s just… you know, space is so huge, and sometimes it makes me feel weird. I need something to feel less tiny and insignificant.”

“I’m not laughing.” His fingers crawl over the plush mat until they find Jihoon’s uncurled to make room. His palm is still sticky, still cold, but Junhui fills the gaps anyway, threads his fingertips through until they’re pressing against a short range of knuckles, hard and soft and everything in between.

“Thanks,” Jihoon says, robbed straight from Junhui’s brain. He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you recognize any constellations still?”

“A few.” Junhui’s mouth runs on autopilot, remote from his brain, a brain thinking about nothing else but the two joined hands between them, hands connected in different directions, a heavy line to tether. His free arm stretches into the air, points at a bright diagonal of three standing out more than the rest. “There’s Orion’s belt.” He sighs and drops his hand back down, leaving it to lie across his chest. “But I’m sure you knew that. Everyone knows Orion.”

“Is there anything else you know?” A heavy pause while he thinks. “Is Gemini there?”

“Yeah.” He points again, traces in the air over the stars he’s pretty sure are right. “It’s right there. They’re kinda close.”

“I can’t see it,” Jihoon grumbles after a minute of inconclusive searching. “It’s easier when you have those little dotted lines to connect them.” Junhui chuckles once, quiet, subdued.

“That’s true.”

A fog of silence descends again, and when it does, Junhui stares at the sky and tries to find more, more of what he once knew, more of what he used to have. The pictures don’t look like much of anything to him anymore, especially not when he can’t focus on anything but Jihoon and whatever he’s thinking over there, whatever he’s going to say next. The glow of the moonlight must be soft on him, must be floating around his irises in perfect circles and sifting through the curls of his hair.  His eyes are dying to see it, but there’s some spell fixing his neck in place, binding him to a view of the sky, and he’s in no place to fight it.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” Jihoon almost whispers, stirring a quiet cloud above his own lips. His hand squeezes slightly, probably unintentional, but Junhui feels it all the same, feels whole like he never thought he would. Something about a quiet lattice of knuckles has ways of changing a person.

“How weird?” Junhui breathes.

“Like, if there are alternate universes,” he begins, tentative and unsure, “do you think they see the same stars we do, or different ones?” It hangs in the air, dangles from imaginary tightropes stretching between the trees overhead. “Don’t laugh.”

Junhui doesn’t laugh. His neck frees itself and turns, turns so his ear is pressed to the blanket beneath him, listening to the iron heartbeat from thousands of miles below, the human heartbeat from inches away. He was right about the moon and where it’s falling, right about everything he thought he knew, right about the stories in the stars when he sees them from this angle. What a childish question, he thinks, stupid and youthful and inconsequential and absolutely weird, but how earnestly Jihoon asked it, and how earnestly Junhui wants to give him an answer. But there is no answer.

There is no answer because Junhui can’t think. He can’t think with anything but his eyes, and his eyes have nothing to show him but Jihoon, and Jihoon is not the answer even though he is. If he turns his gaze back to the stars, he might be able to clear his head enough to formulate some half-witted semblance of an answer, but he won’t and he knows it. There is too much to lose if he takes a glance away for even a single breath in a vast eternity, and he’s not willing to risk it.

That’s love, Junhui figures. The universe spread wide above and no desire to look at it, less than no desire to chance the sight of anything but the universe to the right, the universe with skin and bones and thin silver glasses. A hand entwined that feels like home where it is, a voice that sounds like music even without words, eyes that are windows and mirrors and everything else. He knows that it is without asking just like he knows the stars will look the same if he sees them tomorrow. Maybe in an alternate timeline, they could still be lying here, under different stars, but these are their stars and this their now, and if he can’t speak in this universe, how can he trust the other infinite iterations of himself to be any better?

“I have,” he gulps, “some news you probably don’t want to hear.”

“That’s an ominous way to answer,” Jihoon says with a snort, same as always. Not receiving further clarification, he turns his head to its side, too, gives the moonlight new places to land. “Why are you so serious? Are you dying, too?” Junhui thinks he might be. He breathes in, hard, and savors a single moment of the galaxy dancing between his ears before exhaling it once more.

“I’m in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i didn't finish in february like i wanted to and predicted i wouldn't but i hope you are willing to forgive me. this chapter is..... a lot so like..... please don't be angry  
> i hope you liked the chapter :-) i was seriously last time when i said you would want to be here for this one and i hope you can see why now!! i advise you to anticipate the next chapter, but i have midterms occurring now so there might be a little delay in its production, but please be patient! i'm just a regular guy like you i have stuff to do  
> thank you to everyone who' read this, whether you've been around since the beginning or are just now joining in. i'm very grateful you've decided to give me some of your time, and i hope you'll stick it out til the end with me!!  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and i'll see you again at the next update!!


	9. Chapter 9

Jihoon stares at him, toward him, at the wall he’s built between them, heavy bricks of words slapped carelessly together with mortar of long-kept thoughts and wasted daydreams. Junhui doesn’t want to regret saying it when it feels so good to say, so right to set free, but it’s impossible not to regret the way Jihoon is looking back at him, glass eyes and stone features, time frozen around his face. He doesn’t even blink, it seems, just watches and waits for nothing to come. The stars above them watch, too, for the end or the beginning, a silent canopy of spectators drowning out his breath.

I shouldn’t have said it, Junhui’s brain jumps to say in the unbridgeable gap, I should have kept my mouth shut and looked harder for Ursa Major, but the mix of clouds swirling inside his lungs stops him short, reminds him it still feels on the north side of good. Jihoon’s hand is still in his, cold and unmoving, palm just barely clammy, and it’s the only thing weighing his thoughts down, keeping them on solid ground when his entire being aches to dissipate into the black air burying them. After forever, ten forevers, a thousand, Jihoon’s eyelids flutter shut and open again just as quickly. Everything Junhui has ever seen swims in his irises, but he can’t put a name on any of it.

“Jihoon?” A front of fog clears from Jihoon’s eyes at the sound of his name and he can see again, through the wall and into Junhui’s eyes, past his eyes and into his head, his chest, heart and brain. He can see everything, but all Junhui’s eyes can seem to find is the barrier between them.

“Ah.” It’s light, soft, no more than a breath, but it is the heaviest sound Junhui’s ears have ever met, a weight crushing in from the outside until his organs have been compacted into a single functionless cube. He feels Jihoon’s fingers twitch, put some distance between Junhui’s. “I need to, uh,” he begins, unsteady, and then he pulls his hand free, lifts his back from the blanket and pulls himself into a slouched form of upright, vision trained on a distant wall of trees. Please don’t leave, Junhui’s heart bleeds to say, but just as earnestly as he wishes it, Jihoon rises to his feet and stumbles over to the tent, squeezes inside and zips the entrance shut without a word. Both of Junhui’s hands are empty, but one feels so much colder.

There’s a peculiar sort of loneliness that descends on him when he looks back to the sky, fills him from head to foot, until he’s fit to burst at a change in the wind. A loneliness among all the stars that he cannot touch even one, among every lifetime that he cannot have found himself in the version where things work. The stars seem to laugh at him from all those lightyears away, many likely long dead and fading imperceptibly, full of mirth in their distance, burning together in the recesses of frozen space. Must be nice, he thinks, to be so far away.

It has to be a cruel joke that constellations start coming back to him while he stares up at the shining blanket staring back down, constellations he never thought he knew in the first place. Aries and Leo, Draco, Taurus. Canis Minor. If only he could have remembered just a few minutes ago, kept his lips sealed just a little longer and filled the space with some useless drabble Jihoon was only asking about to humor him. Some version of him in some separate membrane must have done that, under a different layout in the sky, or perhaps one just the same—it’s inconsequential by now. Maybe that version of him is smarter for not saying anything.

But Junhui is not that version of himself. He is this version and he has said something, and even if he feels like he’s had Atlas’ burden transferred to his weary shoulders, he’s finally stopped drowning inside his own lungs, suffocating inside his own head. Some of the struggle is out of him, and that’s got to count for something. He’s in love with Jihoon and he knows it, and that’s got to count for something. Jihoon is in that tent right now, silent as stone, erecting a divide, and maybe that doesn’t count for anything, but if Junhui wants to survive, he’ll count the things he can count for the time being and hope they’re enough.

Eons pass, but Junhui doesn’t know how many. Eons pass, and he watches the stars stay the same and change simultaneously, shift over in the sky while the world turns on without them. Eons pass, and the air gets too cold, cold enough to tell him he ought to force his way into their sardine tin of a tent despite how much Jihoon doubtless doesn’t want him in there. They still have an entire day more, he reminds himself while he clambers off the ground, refolds the blanket and stuffs it back in the car. He reasons Jihoon probably wouldn’t be content to see him freeze to death outside. He hopes.

The sound of the zipper as he drags it around the circular entrance outperforms a combusting jet engine, but he toughs it out and pokes his head in regardless. Inside, Jihoon sits perfectly still, arms wrapped around his knees and eyes unwavering from the spot right beside the entrance, two still-rolled sleeping bags and their associated pillows just beside him, electric lantern standing bright in the farthest corner. It feels even smaller now than it had the first time, but Junhui heaves the rest of him in anyway and zips the entrance back closed behind him. Jihoon flicks to watching him while he perches no more than five inches inside of the wall, delicate and quiet as possible. The way Jihoon’s looking at him is so many worlds different from what he’s used to, but he can’t tell whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“I thought you were in love with me,” Jihoon says, slow, soft, curious. He doesn’t sound upset like Junhui expected, and it makes it so much easier to get a response back.

“I am,” he tests, eyebrow on the verge of raising. Tread carefully, he tells himself. Very carefully. So carefully you almost forget you’re treading.

“So why didn’t you follow me in?” Junhui blinks once.

“Why didn’t I follow you in?” It sounds more like word salad than anything else, but Jihoon certainly emanates sincerity. Maybe Junhui’s left his head outside along with everything else.

“Why didn’t you?” Jihoon asks again, toying with the seam on the side of his pants and pressing his mouth into a disgruntled line. “You stayed out there forever, but you never came in.”

“Was I supposed to?” Very few things are making sense now as they should be. “But I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.” Junhui thinks there’s a good chance this is just a bizarre dream, so he creeps a few inches closer. Jihoon doesn’t back away.

“Well, I mean, yeah, I needed to think about some stuff, but then… I don’t know.” He furrows his brow, and the wrinkles in his forehead are cute enough that Junhui gets distracted. “They do it in movies.” There’s a ten-second delay before Junhui laughs, good and loud. How bizarre, he thinks. He’d have expected that from himself before he’d expect it from Jihoon.

“We’re not in a movie, Jihoon,” Junhui informs him, and Jihoon uncurls from his tiny ball of self and leans back on his hands behind him, huffing out a breath.

“I know we’re not,” he sighs, “but art imitates life, or whatever. Sometimes movie things happen in the real world.” His look is wistful behind those silver frames, mooning over a moment he didn’t get to have. Junhui thinks he gets it.

“Sorry,” he says, and it sends a chill up his spine, because he knows he means it for more than just not following Jihoon into the tent, but maybe not for everything he ought to mean it for. Jihoon opens his mouth and closes it again just the same. The words settle on the air and soak in slowly, and Junhui has to continue. “I’m sorry for dropping that on you out of nowhere, but I’m not taking it back.” The breath Jihoon inhales is quick and sharp, tenses up his shoulders, and Junhui is sorry for that, too.

“Not taking what back?” You know, Junhui almost says. You know what I won’t take back.

“That I’m in love with you,” he says, and the tension in Jihoon’s shoulders spikes then fades, like hearing that again is the very worst of it and it’s all clear waters now, smooth sailing and a perfect lack of waves. “I’m sorry for… I don’t know, surprising you? Scaring you?” Jihoon’s eyes might be wider than normal. Junhui shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m sorry for that, but I’m not sorry for saying it, and I’m not… I’m really not sorry for meaning it.”

“Yeah,” Jihoon sighs, rubbing at weary eyes with his freezing hands, “I guess.” When his hands fall again, his eyes look more tired, more sunken. His mouth is working its way toward a lot of things, but it’s not quite making any of them. “I think…” He exhales again, long, longer, forever. His breath is heavy from lungs of lead. It’s too cold inside this tent, and Junhui can’t help but get goosebumps. “I think maybe I’m not that surprised.”

“You’re not?” Junhui thinks back to the things Jeonghan has said to him, the things Soonyoung has said to him. He thinks back to the memory card half filled with pictures of Jihoon and nothing else, to the kiss he gave him at New Year’s. He thinks back to the time he called him beautiful without thinking, the millions of times he’s thought it without saying, and Jihoon is probably right not to be surprised.

“I’ve had my suspicions,” Jihoon admits. His hand grabs for the closest thing to him, one of the sleeping bags, and clips and unclips the strap holding it together restlessly, until Junhui’s sure it’ll either break or drive him crazy. “Sometimes, I thought, you know, I’m probably just imagining it. But I guess I wasn’t, and I’m not really sure how to take it.”

“Is that why you came in here? To think?” Junhui ventures, and Jihoon nods in return, slow and measured. Junhui’s heart has never beat so hard in his life, but it’s not fast. It’s slow like the nod of Jihoon’s head, slow like the creep of the earth along its orbit, slow like the change in the stars. Is it better or worse than a frenzied thrum? He can’t tell.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Jihoon explains, clipping and unclipping and reclipping and unclipping again, an unsteady tick from an even less steady clock. The more Junhui watches, the more his fingers shake. “And I still don’t know what to say.” The clicking stops. His eyes are empty and lost, deep enough to drown in, but Junhui still dives recklessly into them. “I don’t know, Junhui.”

“You…” The flowers he’s had blooming on his ribs since October have vines, vines that curl around his heart and squeeze too tight, curl around his lungs and squeeze a little more. “You don’t… okay.” If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, Junhui wants to tell himself, but there could be a lot of reasons he doesn’t know. Reasons like they still have another day of camping and it’s hard to tell someone you’re absolutely not interested when you still have to share a tent. “I… sorry.” For a moment, Junhui considers going back out, maybe sleeping in the car, but Jihoon must see it, because he shoots his arm out, an invisible lariat anchored at the wrist.

“Stop thinking what you’re thinking,” he rushes, almost breathless.

“Huh?”

“You jump to conclusions,” Jihoon tells him. “I know you do it, and I know you’re doing it right now. It’s on your face.” Without meaning to, Junhui raises a hand to touch his cheek, and perhaps also without meaning to, Jihoon smiles. “Yeah. I know. And I know I said I don’t know what to say, and I don’t, but I do at least know I’m pretty sure I’m probably in love with you, too.” It’s convoluted and confusing, too good to be true, too ideal to be real. Junhui would be a fool not to take it.

“You are?” He leans forward and Jihoon doesn’t retreat. If it’s a dream, he’d like to keep sleeping.

“I think so,” Jihoon muses thoughtfully, cheeks pink. “I like spending time with you. I’m happier when you’re around, even if you’re taking an annoying number of pictures. Having you in my apartment makes me feel more comfortable even if you’re just sleeping, and it doesn’t make any sense to me. And I think about you a lot.” An arm thrown without care at the tent caging them in. “I wanted you to follow me when I left.” He chews at his lip, dimples deep in his cheeks, cheeks growing redder with each small confession. “I don’t know. I think that’s gotta be it, I guess.”

“Oh.” The words are good news, but the tone sounds like regret, like it’s headed somewhere sad, so it comes out like nothing instead of the excitement Junhui wants to be able to muster. Why is it that something that should be an incredible stroke of luck is being painted to look like misfortune? Why is it that what seems right can so often turn out wrong? Why is it that Junhui always finds ten more questions before he can locate a single answer?

“And I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” Jihoon continues, shaking his head, throwing his hands in pensive circles, “and I really wasn’t. I really, really wasn’t. But then you just… I don’t know. You’re so many good things, and I was going to pretend that I didn’t start to want a little more for the sake of both of us, but now I can’t.” He cradles his face in his hands, blocks out his eyes and leaves only a window for his mouth. “I want it now, but I just can’t have it.”

“Why can’t you?” Junhui creeps closer still, until he can reach out and touch Jihoon’s knee, and he does. Jihoon jumps a little at the touch, slides his fingers down below his eyes. “Why can’t we?”

“Because it’s just not fair, Junhui,” Jihoon says like it’s so painfully obvious. “I’m dying. I’m running out of time, and I’m going to leave you eventually no matter what, and you don’t deserve that.” He groans and moves, shifts so Junhui’s hand isn’t on his knee anymore. “And I don’t deserve it, either.”

“You deserve it,” Junhui tells him.

“Pardon?”

“You deserve it,” he repeats. “I think it’s fair.” It costs a lifetime of labor to coax each word out, but if Junhui can’t speak right now, when else will it count? “If you want it like you say you do, I think you deserve it.”

“How in god’s name is it fair?” Jihoon bellows. It’s strange how mad he is, Junhui thinks, doesn’t quite make sense no matter how much he twists it around in his head.

“Isn’t the entire point of a bucket list doing things you want to do?” He covers Jihoon’s knee with his palm this time and makes sure he can’t tear it away, makes sure he can feel the warmth in his hand and the heartbeat in his fingertips. “If you want something, you deserve it.”

“The point, maybe,” he concedes, draping his hand over Junhui’s, fingers chilly as always, “but the whole reason for having one in the first place is that you kick the bucket at the end.” His frown deepens. “It’s not as simple as just doing what I want. There are impacts. It’s not fair to you.”

“How not?” Junhui asks, voice as brave as he can dress it up to be. “I already said I’m in love with you.” Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“I know that’s _now_ ,” he groans, “but I mean _later_. After I’m gone.”

“I’ll deal with that when it gets here,” Junhui tells him.

“That’s so shortsighted,” Jihoon scoffs, and Junhui does nothing beyond shrug. Most of him is too weak and consumed by nerves for anything else. Jihoon says nothing more for a long time, just watches him, waits, patient but not, eyes full of something akin to fear. At length, he says, “Are you seriously okay with it? You’re really willing to put yourself through that for me?”

“It’s not just for you,” he divulges. “It’s also for me. We’re both alive right now, and that’s what’s important. We have to do these things while we still can.” Jihoon offers a halfhearted laugh in return, dry and weary. His thumb draws a shuddering circle over the back of Junhui’s hand.

“I guess you’re right,” he breathes, eyes flicking in a shy arc over Junhui’s face, up from his mouth to his forehead. Junhui knows exactly what they’re finding.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks. He’s sure he’ll stop breathing if he doesn’t. Maybe Jihoon feels the same way, because all he manages is a nod, and Junhui needs no more cue to take the stage.

It’s entire oceans different when Jihoon is paying attention, when his face is warm for once and Junhui can feel the speeding beat of Jihoon’s heart through his lips. Junhui doesn’t think he’s ever been this jittery in his life, so eager to have his hands doing something, but he has to sate them with curling around Jihoon’s neck, thumbing over his jaw and pulling him close and closer, threading through the gentle curls of his hair and feeling it for how soft it’s always looked, how gorgeous it’s always been. Through a vacuum of distraction, he picks up the sensation of Jihoon’s fingertips resting against his waist, light but unmoving, soft and insistent.

This feeling is where the corals in every reef across the globe get their color, where the flowers filling the world’s meadows find their petals. This is where the moon gets its enchanting glow and snowflakes get their shape, where gold obtains its luster and butterflies their dyed wings. This is the X on every treasure map ever penned, the exit to every cursed labyrinth, the shimmering end of every earthbound rainbow. This is where two sets of lips meet, where Junhui finally learns how unknowably true it is that two parts make up a whole, where he can be part of that whole and somehow understand. This is all he wants to feel and more, and Jeonghan was right when he lamented how sad it was to see him alone.

If the kiss they shared on New Year’s was kiss number zero, this is kiss number negative one. First kisses lose all their magic in the face of it, all their abundant romanticism, their lofty presumptions. No comparison can be made between a hasty kiss behind a coat rack at a high school party and a kiss where galaxies are colliding behind your ribs and inside your lungs. If Junhui could, he would rewrite his entire life up to now, change it all to make this the very first thing he can remember, but since he can’t, he sticks to savoring, drinking in everything Jihoon gives him and holding onto it with his entire chest, lock and key. Maybe it only lasts a minute, or perhaps it lasts a thousand years. When Junhui leans back, his every cell is aflame.

“Am I dreaming?” Junhui’s idiot mouth blurts, lips stinging without excuse. Jihoon looks back at him in wonder, silent and still, enough stars freckling his eyes to cater ten universes.

“Yes.” The corners of his lips curl gently. “You’re dreaming.” Junhui exhales long through his nose, mouth a thin line.

“Nice try, but if this were really a dream, you’d never tell me.” Jihoon’s head falls softly forward, shoulders quake with a soft kind of laugh that only barely reaches Junhui’s ears. He understands now the feelings of every teenager who blasts the same song on repeat until the lyrics are sewn into their DNA; he’s gone 18 years into the past and become one of them. If only the song he’s after could be captured and replicated the same way.

“I don’t think I’ve kissed anybody since I was a senior in college,” Jihoon tells him, foggy with reminiscence. Junhui can’t help but wonder if the guy Jihoon kissed back then knew how lucky he was.

“I kissed you on New Year’s,” Junhui reminds him.

“Well, I don’t remember that, so it doesn’t count.” Junhui shrugs.

“Not my fault you wanted to down a whole bottle of champagne.” Jihoon glares and parts his lips to retort, but Junhui has a sudden and urgent need to say something more, so he cuts him off before he starts. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met in my life, you know.” Jihoon’s jaw hangs open, slack where it had just been so ready to spout words. Beneath the part of his palm on Jihoon’s neck, Junhui feels a stutter in his heartbeat, and it makes his face warm.

“Excuse me?” he says at ends.

“Sorry,” Junhui chuckles, devoid of any real apology. “I’ve wanted to tell you that since I first saw you at that restaurant. I’ve spent a lot of time not saying it.” His thumb dances over the freckle dotted below Jihoon’s eye, a sun holding a hundred worlds in place. “You’re really gorgeous.” Slow and steady, his thumb comes to a pause, just below a crescent of short eyelashes. “What? What’s this look you’re giving me?”

“Nothing,” Jihoon says, blinking. “It’s just unbelievable. You’re very”—his right hand flails in minute loops in front of Junhui’s chest, occasionally flicking closer to his chin—“good-looking. In a lot of ways.” He drops his hand back down, limp and lifeless, knuckles ghosting against the floor. “I’m nothing special.” Junhui groans, allows his eyes to go for a roll.

“That’s just wrong,” he insists. “When you walked in the door, I thought there was no way someone so stunning could be my date, and then I was gonna feel bad when my real date showed up for checking out someone else. It’s true. Stop making that face.” Jihoon sighs. It’s definitely fond, and Junhui won’t let himself think otherwise.

“You’re so…” he begins, trailing off while he picks his brain for the right predicate.

“Charming?” Junhui supplies with a grin.

“In need of glasses,” Jihoon corrects. Junhui scrunches his face in a frown.

“You _wear_ glasses,” he notes, “and I make a living documenting the way I see things. Maybe you should just listen to what I’m telling you and agree.” Jihoon heaves a weighted breath and pats Junhui’s waist gingerly.

“Fine,” he concedes, not sounding too much like he actually agrees. “You’re right. I’m beautiful.”

“Don’t sound so defeated about it. Compliments are supposed to make you feel good.”

“Sure.” Another eye roll later, Junhui’s mouth is back on Jihoon’s and reveling once more in the taste of extraordinary luck. What a fine flavor it is indeed.

When Jihoon’s eyelids start to get heavy, they figure it might be wise to unroll the bedding and gear up for sleep, extinguishing the light and snuggling into their respective sleeping bags to ward off the nighttime chill. Under other circumstances, Junhui would likely have been perfectly content to remain confined to his own insulated tube, but tonight, he feels like it’s not enough, not after the strain he’s had on his brain, on his heart, on the limbs that tie him together. He wiggles across the ground until he feels an obstruction and very carefully slides one arm into Jihoon’s sleeping bag.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jihoon grumbles. Junhui feels a knuckle and scrambles to hunt down the rest of the hand attached to it.

“I want to hold your hand,” he explains, patting around where he just made contact. “Where did it go? It was just right there.” One by one, he feels fingers finding his own and slipping between them, offering a gentle pressure once they’ve all arrived. For once, Jihoon’s palm feels more warm than cold.

“You’re still so weird,” he huffs out, content and tired. Junhui can tell by his voice that he’s already let his eyes droop closed and allows his to do the same. “Sometimes you act so much like a kid.”

“You make me feel like I’m still a kid,” Junhui sighs. Jihoon taps a regular rhythm between his knuckles, fingertip by fingertip, pinky to thumb and back again. “Mostly in the ‘dream where I’m naked at school’ kind of way.” Jihoon snorts at that, and world-renowned symphonic musicians bemoan their comparative inadequacy.

“I hope that’s somehow supposed to be a good thing.”

“It is.” Jihoon hums, low and long, an echo of itself. The earth turns in response.

“I think you’re a lot like a kid,” he muses. Their joined hands bounce in small hops, light restlessness funneling itself out of Jihoon’s arm in an uncommon form. “In the ways that make kids good.” Junhui gives his hand a squeeze, one that asks what those ways are, and it fills his chest when Jihoon understands it, when he squeezes back. “How you ask a lot of questions and pay attention to the answers, and you say what you’re thinking mostly. And how you don’t act like you don’t care.” Junhui whistles.

“And here I thought I just had my looks.” Jihoon barks one short laugh.

“You have those, too.” Silence falls, long enough to convince Junhui that Jihoon’s dozed off and he ought to follow shortly, but it shatters before he can. “I think it’s really lucky I picked you off that site.”

“What made you pick me, anyhow?” he asks. “I’ve been wondering.”

“You really want to know?”

“That would explain why I asked,” Junhui points out. Jihoon sighs, wrought with premature regret, lessens his hold on Junhui’s hand by just enough to be noticeable.

“You’re handsome,” he confesses, fatigued, then, “Don’t say anything.” Junhui presses his lips into a perplexed frown, unseeing eyes flinging back open to survey the starless false sky four feet above him.

“Wow,” he says after a while. Jihoon groans.

“I said not to say anything.”

“I didn’t.” A huff.

“If I’m going to be seeing a lot of someone, they may as well be nice to look at,” he explains. “I’m not a bad person.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“You can’t prove that.” Another huff. Junhui’s shoulders shake with laughter he does his best to keep at bay, rustling the sleeping bag beneath him despite his best efforts. Jihoon can probably recognize the sound.

“Whatever. I’m going to sleep.” A silent clock somewhere in the world ticks by until Junhui disturbs the quiet again.

“I think it’s really lucky you picked me, too,” he whispers. It’s no sooner off his tongue than he loses it on the air.

If Jihoon is awake, he doesn’t say anything, just maintains his even breathing, there and alive. By now, his hand is fully warm, stiff in its tangle with Junhui’s, comfortable and perfect. I think I’m lucky to be here right now, his brain resounds, bounces around inside his skull, amplifies to infinity. I think I’m the luckiest man ever born.

He shuts his eyes again and sets to counting the stars in his head, in his chest, shifting and imploding and colliding, a vast and consuming enigma. He far overshoots ninety-six by the time he lapses into slumber, but he comes nowhere close to running out.

“Wake up.” Jihoon’s voice is hushed, soft on his ears, dry leaves skittering across concrete, a weak breeze rustling sparse trees. When Junhui gathers the strength to crack an eye open, he finds Jihoon’s face much too close, lips ghosting beside the shell of his ear, eyes drooping in delicate crescents with lashes fanned out and frames perched crooked on his nose. There’s barely enough light in the tent for him to make out the details, but he spots them anyway, spots the upslopes of gray against the murky gradient of blue behind.

“What time is it?” he asks, whispered, voice catching on a crack in the middle and sending Jihoon into a soft chuckle. His body shies away from the cold morning air outside his padded cocoon, all but the arm still haphazardly stuck out of it, numb from exposure. He can see that Jihoon’s hand encases his more than he can feel it.

“Early,” Jihoon tells him. He pats the top of Junhui’s head encouragingly, but it’s more effective in pushing his eyes back closed than it is in rousing him. “Come on, get up.”

“Why?” Junhui moans. “Are we going on a hike?”

“Yeah, we’re going on a hike to wake ourselves up. Eight miles. Shake a leg.” Junhui’s eyes shoot open immediately, pleading, praying. A shift in his legs tells him they’re far too sore to cover any distance right now. Jihoon snorts. “I’m joking. Calm down.”

“What is it then?” Junhui starts to say, but a yawn cuts him off midway. Little by little, the blues in the tent start to lighten until they’re mostly just dark grays, dark grays and the subdued pink glowing on Jihoon’s cheeks. What a contrast. His camera would love it.

“Sun’s about to rise,” Jihoon informs him, putting a little more effort into tugging at Junhui’s shoulders. “We have to watch it. Hurry up.” Junhui thinks it would sound worlds more appealing if there were no frost dusting the hairs on his arm, but Jihoon must not care what sounds appealing, because he pulls with fervor all the same, pulls until Junhui’s shoulders are fully freed from their haven of protection and a shiver runs down from his neck to the rest of his spine.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting up,” he says, wriggling a careful path out of his sleeping bag and sucking in a hard breath every time a new layer hits the cold. He yanks the jacket he wore last night over his head and shoves his feet hastily into his shoes before following Jihoon out of the tent with bumbling steps, out into a world of gray and numb, of dull monochrome and unwelcoming chill.

A short walk brings them to a clear spot overlooking the spread below the mountains, the horizon in the distance. At its base, the sky is dyed a whitish gray bordering on pale blue, a quiet signal of the sunrise incoming, and Junhui watches it grow from behind misty puffs of his own breath, shivering hands shoved deep into his pockets. Slowly and slowly, it grows, expands, a pool of light making way for the most local star to make its grand entrance with a fanfare of more engaging hues. With the sight of the first color beyond bleached blue, a thin and humble band of yellow nestled snug against the skyline, Junhui feels Jihoon’s hand snake into one pocket and lace itself with his.

In his lifetime, Junhui has seen far more sunsets than sunrises. He doesn’t get up early enough to watch the sun rise and never has, even in the winter, even when he’s been so generously afforded an extra hour or two of sleep to allow for it, and he’s always satisfied himself with the sunset, reasoned they’re similar enough to get by only ever seeing one, that heads is enough to tell you all about tails. It becomes apparent as he stands here now that some halves do swimmingly as interchangeable parts and some halves fall short without the whole they complete. Sunrises and sunsets, he’s realizing, are the second.

How can they substitute for each other, really, when they could be no less alike? Junhui watches the colors paint the sky stretching wide over him, watches a shy lilac dust the undersides of wispy clouds, bolder rouge chase it down, citric and passionate orange nudge away at the less vibrant shades holding it back. Sunrise and sunsets are perfect opposites, complementary pieces that fit tight together like the world’s most complex puzzle. They are each other’s end and beginning, push and pull, death and birth. There cannot be one without the other, and Junhui was a fool for thinking the world was simple enough to allow the start line and finish line to overlap so flawlessly.

When at last the sun itself arrives, spares a sliver of gold over the edge of the land that creeps up gradually until it’s a full and gleaming circle, bright yellow and blinding, it’s far too bright to look at. To save his eyes, Junhui turns to look at Jihoon instead, and when he does, he finds him looking back, still like he’s been looking back for centuries already. Junhui offers a lopsided smile, and Jihoon gives one to him in return, unfairly beautiful at the hands of the morning rays. Between them, beyond them, the sun smiles, too, grins as it melts its spectrum of honey to cyan in the atmosphere, grins despite its far-off envy.

The sun reaches its resting spot shortly after, a shining bulb bounded on all sides by a shallow ocean of infinite depth, and Junhui is still looking at Jihoon, still being looked back at. The sunrise is the beginning. It is the birth of a new day, the start of a new life. The sunrise is the point from which all things stem and sunset that to which they all return. And they are different. And there is space between them, as the laws of the universe dictate there must be. And there is time.

Today is a sunrise. It is a beginning, an injection of color and life into what moments ago lay gray and unmoving. No sunrise can last forever, and Junhui knows, but before its accompanying sunset, there will always be time. Sunrises do not back down in fear of the sunsets waiting to meet them because they know they will always have time. Even though it will not last forever, there will always be time. Even if only for a moment, there is always time.

Inside his pocket, Junhui grips Jihoon’s hand a little more tightly, warm and real, and Jihoon returns the gesture in kind. Even if it’s just for right now, they still have time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then jun woke up. lmao when am i gonna stop making that joke  
> anyhow HELLO glad to see you again here with another chapter and i hope u enjoyed it! sorry for leaving u on such a fat cliffhanger last time but that's just who i am ig. thanks to everyone who wished me luck on my midterms. they went ok. it's whatever  
> well, i'll say again i hope you liked this chapter. i know it's maybe not that exciting but... what can you do. sometimes it just be like that. thank you to all who read, be you new or old, and thank you for reading before and continuing to read! the response i've received to this fic so far has been phenomenal and leagues beyond what i ever hoped, and i hope you'll all stick it out with me til the end!  
> thanks so much once again for reading! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and i'll catch you again at the next update!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck you

“So what you’re saying is I was right the whole time, and you owe me an apology?”

Jeonghan is smug behind his coffee cup, smug in the way he twirls a ballpoint pen between his fingers. He’s always smug like this when Junhui tells him anything, and by now, Junhui should have learned not to tell him anything ever, but it’s hard to avoid when you walk into the office and are immediately bombarded with, “What’s got you looking so happy?” and, “Did you do something over the weekend?” and, “Does that something perhaps rhyme with Mihoon?” in the space of a single minute. Junhui quickly runs out of viable routes. It would be worse in the long run not to tell him, so with a mighty and reluctant sigh, he is forced to tell.

“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” Junhui deadpans, clicking through to his calendar, full for the next two weeks to a degree that used to be completely manageable but now seems like an extraordinary burden. More and more these days, he feels like he never does any work. While he’d like to feel bad about it, Jeonghan accosting him like this has always been and will always be contra to the sentiment.

“Well,” Jeonghan whistles, taking another sip, “that’s definitely what I’m hearing.” Of course it is, Junhui thinks. You always hear what you want regardless of what I say. “I’m waiting here until I get my apology.”

“You’re not getting one,” Junhui grumbles. “Go back to your desk.” Four weddings in the next two weeks. Is that normal? Has this time of year always been so popular for weddings? Junhui can’t remember for the life of him, and Jeonghan doesn’t seem like he’s going to be helpful.

“The nerve!” His mug meets the desktop with a worrying clank and an even more worrying splash that stops Junhui’s heart for the entire second it spends looking like it’ll hit his keyboard before splashing harmlessly on the wood next to his hand. “After you spend all these months lying directly to my beautiful face?”

“I never lied to you about anything,” Junhui spits back. Omission of the truth doesn’t count as lying, and how could he have known he was omitting the truth in the first place? Lying is informed and active. What Junhui’s been doing is passive and naïve. Jeonghan is too immature to ever understand this subtle difference.

“You definitely lied about being fatly in love with Jihoon for five months.”

“You…” He groans. “Don’t you know any better word than ‘fatly’? You couldn’t pick something else?”

“Bigly.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Doesn’t matter what word I use,” Jeonghan retorts, waving his hand through the air, “because you still pretended I couldn’t tell you were head over heels since day one, and I think it’s just because you don’t want to thank me for giving your life meaning again.” Junhui sighs. Jeonghan has the unique and very special ability to turn every conversation with him into an enormous chore, and of course he has to employ it again now.

“I’m not thanking you for ‘giving my life meaning again.’”

“That’s fine.” Breezy and cool, almost suspiciously so. Junhui raises his eyebrows. “Just bring Jihoon over for dinner again.” He raises them higher.

“Are you really asking me? You _want_ me to come over?” He lifts the keyboard like he’ll find something under it, throws glances at all the corners where he doesn’t usually look, checks under the desk in the cavity around his knees. “Is Seokmin hiding somewhere? Is there a camera?”

“You’re so horrendously unfunny that I can’t believe someone as decent as Jihoon would ever kiss you on purpose,” Jeonghan tells him, eyes dead and devoid of the amusement usually found dancing in them. “Since I’m honest, and not a chronic fibber like you, I’ll just tell you flat out that it’s because I like Jihoon and I want him to have dinner with us, but there’s no reason for him to come if you’re not there.” Junhui pauses to contemplate.

“You’re an asshole, you know that? The biggest asshole on earth.”

“And proud.” Jeonghan flashes a beaming grin before pursing his lips and flicking his eyes to the ceiling, letting them roam around in search of some imagined scenery printed there. “Anyway, Marbles has gotten really big, too, and Seokmin wants you to come see her.” Marbles and Seokmin are factors redeeming enough to make a soul as gentle as Junhui forget that Jeonghan is the worst man alive.

“I’ll talk to Jihoon about it,” he says, and Jeonghan bursts into a grin more genuine than most he usually wears. When he finally returns to his own desk, Junhui turns his eyes back to his achingly filled schedule and wonders when weddings started to feel so much like thorns.

He manages to ask Jihoon about having dinner at Jeonghan’s that Wednesday evening while they watch TV, curled into the couch at Jihoon’s place. It’s still a surreal thing to be so close to someone arbitrarily, still hard for Junhui to comprehend that he’s allowed to experience it, but there Jihoon sits, nestled back into his arms like it’s somewhere he should be, spine pressed fully into Junhui’s chest. It’s very hard, Junhui realizes, to figure out when it is and isn’t appropriate to kiss someone you’ve been thinking about kissing nonstop for months once you’ve finally been afforded the opportunity. He hasn’t been paying much attention to what’s happening on the screen.

“Dinner at Jeonghan’s?” Jihoon snorts at the proposition like it’s some kind of joke. If Junhui dwells on it long enough, it sort of is. “I thought he never invited you over.”

“He doesn’t,” Junhui sighs, rubbing his hand in a small path over the curve of Jihoon’s shoulder and the dip near his neck, down and back up again in a silent rhythm. It’s a wonderful thing, the way that shoulder curves. Junhui thinks he’ll remember its outline in his next hundred lives. “He wants you to come over. I’m just an accessory.” Jihoon guffaws, and his palm comes to rest on Junhui’s thigh, administers a few calm pats.

“I don’t think you’re an accessory.” Pats devolve slowly into the rhythmic tap of fingertips, pinky to index finger, a metronome of a song Junhui’s ears are dying to catch a second of. “Not for me, anyway.”

“I should hope not.” Jihoon gives his thigh a light smack before returning to his subtle rhythm, and as much as Junhui would like to be able to focus on the television, his brain refuses the task. Even if he does look directly at the screen, Jihoon is still too much in his periphery to allow it, so he surrenders to looking at Jihoon with the screen in his periphery instead. It’s probably weird to stare at someone like this, and he guesses Jihoon probably doesn’t want him to anyway, but there always exists the chance of a freak accident tomorrow where he tragically loses his eyes, so he figures he may as well use them while they’re still operating. The logic is flawless, irrefutable, so long as he doesn’t have to say it out loud.

“I’m fine with eating at Jeonghan’s,” Jihoon answers at last. “When are we going?” Junhui hums in thought.

“Sunday, maybe? I’m pretty busy this week.” A stray curl of Jihoon’s hair catches his attention, sticking almost straight out from his head. Junhui pats it back down into place. Jihoon grumbles. “I have to shoot a wedding on Saturday.”

“A wedding?” He whistles. “That seems fun.”

“Weddings are my favorite to work,” Junhui confesses. He can tell by the way Jihoon’s head doesn’t pivot from the screen that his words are going in one ear and evaporating before they even reach the other side, but it’s not enough to get him to stop talking. Something gives him the feeling that Jihoon is still partially listening. “The flowers are nice, and the people are always happy. They’re nice to go to.” A pause. “You’re beautiful.”

“Pardon?” Now Jihoon tears his gaze from the TV to narrow his eyes at Junhui, lower his brows. Junhui’s always known he could trust his gut; his lips stretch into a grin.

“Just wanted to see if you were listening.”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, turning back to his show. “Of course I’m listening.”

“You are beautiful, also.” Jihoon sighs.

“I already said I was fine with going to dinner.”

“I know.” The hand on Jihoon’s shoulder roams to find his neck, sift a few fingers through his hair. “Ah, Jihoon?”

“Are you paying attention to this show at all?”

“No.” Groan. “I love you.” Jihoon’s head lolls back to hit Junhui’s shoulder while he forces out a heavy exhale, eyes falling shut.

“Why are you doing this?” he says more than asks, cheeks firm in their pinkness. The color sits on his skin just right, and were Junhui not so busy being trapped behind Jihoon on the couch, he’d chance grabbing his camera and snapping a shot.

“I’m sorry,” he snorts. “I was under the impression that it’s perfectly legal to say what’s on my mind. Am I being censored now?”

“Not…” His nose whistles a little when he blows out of it. Hands rake down his face hard enough to drag the skin off his cheeks. “I’m just not used to it, you know? I’ve only dated three guys before. A long time ago.” He risks a look in Junhui’s direction from behind the shield of his fingertips. “We never got into L-word territory. It’s hard for me.”

“L-word territory,” Junhui whispers. “And you say I’m childish.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine, I’m not saying anything. Not a peep more from me.”

“I’ll work on it,” Jihoon tells him. When Junhui says nothing more, Jihoon drops a hand back to his thigh and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “And I love you, too,” he manages, soft and drained. “Can I watch the show now?”

“Kiss me first.” Jihoon purses his lips in quiet thought.

“Jeonghan is so great.” Junhui knows he’s just joking, but it still grates at him. “I wonder what he’s up to right now.”

“Being married.” With that, Jihoon sighs, rolls his eyes, and cranes his neck to meet Junhui’s lips with his own. The small smile curling on his face while he leans in doesn’t escape Junhui’s notice. It feels like breathing air for the first time, and Junhui feels a new sense of gratitude that he was gifted with lungs.

Saturday’s wedding is lovely, as all weddings are. Peaches and cream color scheme, soft little flowers that melt from orange to pink, pearl garnishes on tables clothed in a shade just one dot yellower than white. He gets a great shot of the bride with her bouquet, smile wide and unfaltering like most wedding day smiles are, hair falling in loose curls carefully constructed by a very dedicated stylist, and he gets other good pictures, too, of the bridal party, matching in peachy pink dresses that are just ugly enough to still be decent, pictures of the groomsmen, chests swollen with pride for their newlywed friend. Must be nice to be on that side of the camera, he thinks before he can stop himself.

It really must be. Junhui wouldn’t know. He photographed Jeonghan’s wedding as a favor even though Jeonghan said he didn’t have to. “You can come as just a regular guest,” he’d said, “even if you don’t wanna be one of my groomsmen. You don’t always have to be working.” But Junhui had insisted. Funny of him to remember that now as he lines his lens up to take another flurry of shots of the happy couple, glowing with the calm glee spring always brings. Really must be nice to be on that side.

Weddings are still Junhui’s favorite even if they hit him somewhere it hurts, even if that spot hurts even more now because he’s finally got someone he’d like to be on the opposite end of the lens with, someone who would make it worth catching the flash in his eyes and shelling out three hundred dollars for a cake that only gets halfway eaten. He’s sure Jihoon would look unbelievable in a suit, every star in the universe collapsed into one, sure he’d look even more unbelievable with a nice gold band settled on his ring finger, a miniscule beacon anchored so close to home. It hurts even more when the dream is so much more concrete yet just as far out of reach.

He knows it’s a foolish thing to hope for. There is certainly no point in marrying someone when you know that you will very shortly cease being married to them, and Junhui knows enough to know that’s probably what Jihoon would tell him, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t hope for it anyway. And it’s true that they haven’t known each other very long and could be on the cusp of coming to hate each other, but it’s just as true that Junhui has never felt quite so whole while looking at another person, never felt quite so much like himself seeing someone else’s eyes, and it doesn’t do anything to dampen his hope, either. He gives the shutter button a purposeful push, twists the camera into a vertical angle. They better realize how lucky they are, this couple.

Come Sunday, his mind is off the wedding and instead on the otherworldly lasagna Seokmin must be preparing. Jeonghan promised him explicitly on Thursday that Seokmin would make it, which means Junhui is legally allowed—nay, encouraged—to kill him if they end up having something different, so there’s no unfortunate way for the evening to turn out. Not that there would have been in the first place, since everything Seokmin makes is amazing, but Junhui takes great pleasure in nagging Jeonghan’s ears off when he turns out to be wrong.

From the second Jihoon climbs into the passenger’s seat and settles the ever-present camera case in his lap, Junhui talks his ears off about the lasagna, making sure to pointedly ignore the frantic figure of 514 while he attempts to flag them down after exiting his guest spot. He says there’s no way to describe how good the lasagna is in any human language then attempts to describe it anyway, and Jihoon snorts in that way he always does and rolls his eyes while he looks out the window. It’s nice, Junhui thinks, to talk like this about something that doesn’t matter and never will and still feel like the one you’re talking to cares at least a little bit. A comfortable silence falls with one third of the drive remaining, after Junhui’s tired himself out trying to fabricate different ways to describe the layering of the cheeses.

“Hey,” Jihoon starts suddenly, a little quiet, still focused on the passing scenery outside, “how much do they know?”

“How much do they know?” Junhui echoes, sparing a glance to Jihoon’s side of the car. “Jeonghan and Seokmin, you mean? About what?”

“About me.” The thrum of the car’s engine fills the gaps between the muted songs on the radio. White clouds float high above, heavy with water eager to return to the land below, silent with questions unasked and answers ungiven, still no matter how high the speedometer reads.

“About you?” He flattens his mouth. “Well, they have met you, so plenty, I guess.”

“I mean,” he breathes, “do they know I’m dying?” Junhui hums, low and dissonant.

“I haven’t told them,” he says.

“I see.” Another quarter mile ticks quietly by.

“Should I have told them?” Junhui decides to ask. “I wasn’t sure if you would want me to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jihoon wheezes, fingers drumming the armrest. “I don’t even know if I want them to know. Part of me does, but… I don’t want to just be a sick person, you know?”

“I guess.” Junhui blows air out through his nose. His hand crawls from the steering wheel to find Jihoon’s knee and give it a gentle shake. “Well, tell them if you feel like you want to. I don’t think they’ll be weird about it.” With great reluctance, he returns his hand to its spot on the wheel. “They’re good people.” A thin chuckle slips through Jihoon’s teeth.

“I thought Jeonghan was the worst man alive.”

“He is.” Junhui chews his lip. “But he is decent, at least.”

“You’re aware that doesn’t make sense, yeah?”

“It does if you know Jeonghan like I do.”

Seconds after the doorbell has been rung, the sound of Marbles barking hits Junhui’s ears alongside the resonant tones of Seokmin’s laughter. Subsequently come the sounds of her four paws hitting the hardwood as she makes a mad dash to greet the guests and Seokmin’s sustained cry of alarm as he bumbles behind. He cracks the door open just enough to flash his face in the gap and blocks canine passage by sticking his leg in the bottom portion.

“Evening,” he says with a characteristic wide smile, slightly breathless. “Just a warning, Marbles gets really excited around guests. Are you guys gonna be okay if she jumps on you?” They turn to each other and blink a few times without exchanging words.

“I think we can handle it,” Junhui says. Seokmin’s eyes recede into even thinner crescents with the growth of his grin.

“Was that telepathy I just witnessed? You guys are amazing.” Before Junhui can think of a way to respond to that, Seokmin’s turned his head inside to look at the dog at his feet. “Marbles!” he coos, and she barks again, loud and hearty. “Friends are here!” Without further stalling, he swings the door the rest of the way open and backs up to allow Marbles a solid jump that lands her paws on Junhui’s thighs.

She has gotten much bigger, much fluffier, and her energy is insatiable. Even after she’s finished jumping at Junhui’s legs, she runs in wobbly circles around their feet while they follow Seokmin down the hall, barks over his explanation that the lasagna’s still in the oven for a few more minutes. Her little ears flop with each turn of the head, tail thumps indiscriminately against everything it passes, and she’s still shown no signs of calming down by the time they’ve wandered into the vacant living room.

Junhui squats and runs a hand over her soft head, runs a thumb behind her ears. “Hey, Marbles,” he says to her twinkling eyes and hanging tongue. “Did you know your Dad One is so great? He loves you.” She gives a tiny jump with her front feet like she understands and agrees. “But that Dad Two… he’s a real piece of work.”

“I’ll have you know I’m Dad One,” Jeonghan calls from the doorway, and Marbles flits to his side without hesitation, pacing in a small loop around his feet. He stoops to give her back a few lazy pats. “Stop shit talking my husband.” Junhui rises to his full height again and furrows his brow.

“Seokmin should be Dad One,” he grumbles. “He’s the better dad.”

“Well, I’m Dad One because I’m older. Besides, she likes both of us.”

“I think she’s just been brainwashed,” Junhui says, dubious. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he stage whispers, “Marbles, be honest. You’re just pretending to like Fake Dad One, aren’t you?”

“Even if you say ‘fake,’ I’m still Dad One,” Jeonghan reminds him, face blank. “Hi, Jihoon, by the way. I’m sorry he’s like this.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

“Excuse me?” Junhui squawks. He shakes his head to the tune of Jihoon’s laughter. “Anyway, maybe you can both be Dad One, but only one of you is the real one, and it’s definitely Seokmin.”

“What’s this?” Seokmin butts in, materializing out of nowhere and planting a sugary kiss on Jeonghan’s cheek. “We’re both the real Dad One. Also, dinner is ready.” He claps his hands on his thighs and grins. “Come on, Marbles! It’s time to eat!”

She digs into a little silver bowl at the far wall of the kitchen while the rest of them sit at the table forking through sizable slices of lasagna. Seokmin explains in detail his process, how he uses six types of cheese and makes the sauce himself from farmer’s market tomatoes, the exact number of seconds he boils the noodles to get them just right, the precise measurements of seasonings he adds to the meat to get it to taste like a slice carved off the side of heaven. Junhui flicks glances Jihoon’s way to gauge whether he’s enjoying the lasagna as much as it deserves, but he’s never been an easy guy to read, and now is no exception.

A gentle scrabble on the far side of the room indicates Marbles has finished her meal, and it’s only moments later when Junhui feels her tiny nose nudge at his shin while she wanders around below the table. The soft jingle of her collar and softer pad of her paws over the tile makes very soothing background music. Every so often, Seokmin takes fond glances under the table and makes faces at her, and to Junhui’s incredible surprise, Jeonghan does it, too. The way they snicker at each other over there would be completely disgusting were he not drowning in envy.

“We’re gonna need to take her on another W-A-L-K later,” Jeonghan muses around a sip of wine. “She’s all rambunctious because of the company.” Seokmin nods sagely.

“Do you want me to just do it, or do you want to come, too?”

“You took her on the last W-A-L-K alone, so I’ll go with you this time.”

“Why are you guys spelling walk?” Junhui asks. Jeonghan hits him with a glare in the same instance Marbles erupts in an energetic fit of barking, scrambling out from under the table and looking between her two fathers with frantic enthusiasm.

“He didn’t mean it,” Seokmin tries to shush her. “Turnips. Graduation. Income tax.”

“Distracting her with other words isn’t gonna make her forget she heard it,” Jeonghan reminds him gently.

“Someday it might.” Seokmin pokes at her feet with his toe, chases her into a tiny dance. “Dictionary. Bell pepper.”

“Dogs sure are smart,” Jihoon whistles, gazing at the puppy dancing around Seokmin’s foot. “They really get a lot of what you say to them even if they don’t understand language.”

“Right?” Seokmin turns his attention to Jihoon, beaming. “They’re amazing. Do you think you want to get a dog?”

“Well,” he begins, and Junhui notices the way his shoulders tense, the way his face gets stiff, “I think having one might be nice.” Junhui would give a million worlds’ worth of anything to reach over and give his knee a squeeze right now, pat his shoulder, anything, but it’s too conspicuous, too strange. “But I don’t really have the time to be able to commit to raising a dog.”

“It’s really not that much,” Seokmin says. You don’t get it, Junhui wants to tell him, but his tongue holds itself. “If you get a low-energy breed, they don’t need to spend much time playing with you, or if you adopt one from a shelter, you don’t have to worry about training it much a lot of times. It’s a lot less time than you might think.”

“It’s not really that,” Jihoon says. Something in his eyes changes, something in his breathing. Junhui’s lungs fall still while he waits. Jihoon exhales, slow and measured. “I’m going to be dead in a few months, so I shouldn’t get a dog.” Jeonghan gulps his mouthful of wine down quickly.

“You…” His jaws hangs open, limp and lifeless, and Junhui finds the courage to stretch a hand over to Jihoon’s knee. Jihoon’s hand covers it and squeezes. “I’m sorry?” Jeonghan looks between their faces, eyes wide. “Is that true? Junhui?”

“It’s true,” Junhui confirms. Jeonghan and Seokmin stare at the pair across the table, completely blank, and wait for further explanation. Silence is stirred only by Marbles rattling around the legs of the table, oblivious and still hung up on the word _walk_.

“I’m sicker than I look,” Jihoon tells them. As much time as Junhui spends with his eyes on Jihoon, it’s still hard to tell what he’s thinking, whether he’s relieved to get this out or distressed that he has to, whether his mouth is moving because he wants it to or because it feels like it must. “I won’t be around anymore in a little more than half a year now.”

That’s all that’s left? Junhui’s brain races to do the math, but dates are already starting to blur together. When was it that Jihoon said he had around a year left? It feels like eons ago already, a distant memory long buried by so many countless others, and it also feels like it’s just come rolling off Jihoon’s tongue, fresh on the ears and in the air. Time has been passing. Junhui’s forgotten that time has been passing this entire time, that time doesn’t just start when he wants it to start, when he feels like it starts. Time has no such rules to follow, and there may still be time left, but it’s becoming increasingly evident just how quickly it can slip away.

“That’s… soon,” Jeonghan says, slow, careful. He fixes Junhui with a look that says several things, namely _you bastard_ and _we are going to have a talk about this_ , and Junhui very conveniently pretends not to see them.

“It is,” Jihoon allows, “but I’m doing a lot of things I’ve always wanted to do. I met Junhui because of it.” There’s a thin smile playing at his lips, very thin and very nice, regretless and light, and it spikes Junhui right through the middle of his chest. “So I can’t say it’s all bad.” Jeonghan makes a face like he wants to say meeting Junhui was not a good thing or maybe that just because something isn’t all bad doesn’t mean it’s not mostly bad, but he wipes it off just as quickly and doesn’t say either of those things. Seokmin hefts another forkful of lasagna into his mouth and chews it thoroughly before saying anything else.

“Well,” he coughs, “that may be the case, but you could still technically get a dog.” His smile comes back like it’s nothing. “I’m sure Junhui would keep taking care of it, right?”

Three pairs of eyes are on him very suddenly, and Junhui has little option but to bob his head as fast as it can go and mutter out an, “Of course.” Seokmin’s smile brightens, and he offers a thumbs up for which Junhui is very grateful, and Jihoon’s eyes crinkle, glimmer just noticeable.

“Maybe I’ll consider it, then,” Jihoon says, and he feeds himself another bite off his plate. “The lasagna is amazing, by the way.” Marbles skitters around in another small circle and barks again.

“Disciple,” Seokmin tells her.

After dinner, they head to the living room to watch a film Seokmin’s recorded off the Lifetime Movie Network that he says himself he doesn’t remember recording. It turns out to be just as terrible as expected, so the majority of the film’s duration is spent watching the puppy prance around the carpet, occasionally grabbing a stray toy in her mouth and delivering it to a potential playmate. Jihoon tosses a tennis ball for her a few times, only far enough that she has to take a few steps to get it, and there’s a smile on his face while he watches her dash off in pursuit that’s softer than Junhui’s ever seen, quiet and tender and so unfairly endearing he thinks he’ll pass out if it goes on too long. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—the two Dad Ones decide fairly soon that she really does need to go on her W-A-L-K, so Junhui and Jihoon figure they may as well head out, too, and climb in the car while they watch the figures of two grown men and one small dog walk off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

“She really is a cute little dog,” Junhui mumbles when they turn back on the highway. He wonders if the tiny sparkles in her eyes are still haunting Jihoon like they’re haunting him.

“Very,” Jihoon agrees. He hums awhile before adding, “Would you really take care of a dog for me after I’m gone?”

“Sure,” Junhui returns without hesitation. “I’d take care of ten if you left that many behind.” A quick glance in Jihoon’s direction. “Not that I’m advising you get that many.” He snorts. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. What’s with taking Jeonghan’s side and ganging up on me earlier, hm? I don’t think I deserved that.”

“You know I was _joking_ ,” Jihoon groans, slapping Junhui on the knee with more force than he probably needs to use. “Jeonghan’s not even all that bad, anyway.”

“I know,” Junhui sighs, “but it makes me less stressed to act like he is.”

Jihoon chortles when he throws his gaze forward at the road, evening sunlight glinting in orange and crimson around the curves of his face, turning him into a sunset all his own, detached from any star and relocated to earth. That song Junhui thinks he knows comes to mind again, but he’s still not quite able to fish out the title no matter how long he waits for a bite. He thinks about asking Jihoon but decides he doesn’t need to know the title of that imagined song to appreciate how full it makes his chest feel.

“Ah.” Jihoon’s voice floats, easy on the ears, a single soft syllable that sounds quite like the world. “Could we stop somewhere before you take me back?”

“Sure.” Junhui watches gold slide down over Jihoon’s nose, glint off his glasses. “What for?”

“My parents’ anniversary is coming up,” Jihoon tells him, scrunching his nose against the glare coming at him sideways, pushing his frames further up the bridge. “I need to get them something.”

“Oh, are you going to go visit them?” Jihoon nods.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to go with me,” he says. His fingernails tap a beatless rhythm on his knee. “To visit them.”

“You want me to meet your parents?”

“If you want to.” The radio hums soft between them, hums with a voice of its own over a tune unwritten. “It’s only an hour or two drive north of here.”

“I’ll definitely go.” Junhui struggles to keep down the bubbles in his lungs. He’s never met parents before, not even Jeonghan’s when they were back in school. It’s exciting the way the first day of high school is exciting, the way moving to a new city is exciting. To start existing somewhere you haven’t existed before is always a strange thing, but Junhui likes the idea. “You’re sure you want me to meet them, though?”

“They’ve met worse people.” He slaps the armrest. “Here, pull off here. I think there’ll be something in this store.”

While he watches Jihoon compare two sets of novelty salt and pepper shakers, Junhui thinks this is probably not quite what Soonyoung had in mind when he suggested they shop together, but he definitely feels like there’s something special about it after all, something that makes the mundane slightly less so when you’re with the right person. Jihoon looks beautiful no matter what he does, and Junhui thought he already knew that, but it has never stood out quite as clearly as it does now, when he wrinkles his brow in indecision over whether the shakers shaped like houses or the shakers shaped like fruit are better. Junhui could kiss him right here in front of this entire shelf of novelty salt and pepper shakers, and while he’s well aware he better not, he still wants to.

Eventually, Jihoon decides on the ones shaped like houses since they’re more detailed. On the way back out to the car, he divulges that his parents probably won’t even use them so it doesn’t really matter all that much, but they’ve always had a weird thing for dumb little novelty items, so that’s what he always gets them, little trinkets they’ll never do anything with. Junhui thinks it’s sweet, sweet like how his little brother always made cards by hand for their mother’s birthday. There are few ways to describe something like that which do it sufficient justice, but Junhui thinks Jihoon is made of gold, inside and out.

When they pull into the complex parking lot, Junhui cuts the engine and waits, waits until he’s dizzy, waits though he doesn’t know what he might be waiting on. Leftover glow from the long-set sun lingers in fine lines tracing Jihoon’s silhouette against the darkness, glowing sunflower petals stretched impossibly thin around his shadow. Some tiny seed germinating behind Junhui’s ribs is insistent in telling him this isn’t it, some nagging hook under his skin. Jihoon coughs, a soft sea breeze.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?”

“Huh?”

This would be the first time Junhui’s stayed over since they went camping, and it floods his head with all kinds of silly high school thoughts, maybe a bit more daring then his daydreams ventured in high school, enough to give his heart a few kicks and dye his cheeks a few shades darker than normal. He’s grateful for the darkness enveloping them, encasing them in a cool cocoon of nighttime that makes it easier to say and think and feel some things the sun’s presence often makes too difficult.

“You don’t have to,” Jihoon tells him.

“I will,” Junhui says back.

He gets a weird sense of nostalgia while they stand in the elevator this time, a bizarre flashback to the first time he ever came over. It was a different life then, a completely different world, far from the nights he lay awake in bed attaching stars to every facet of Jihoon he could bring to mind. He’s a different person altogether now and still completely the same, enamored no matter how many ways you slice it. Jihoon is everything, just as he always has been.

The apartment is dark and quiet when Jihoon yanks its door open, sullies the perfect pitch blackness by switching on the kitchen light and pouring himself a glass of water. He gazes at Junhui over the rim of the glass before taking a long sip and setting it on the countertop with a full clack.

“Remember the first time you came here, when we made bread?” he asks. It’s so startlingly funny how thoughts line up in the strangest places like that, how two separate brains can arbitrarily recall the exact same string of time, but it’s not quite funny enough to coax out a laugh.

“I remember.” Jihoon smiles, eyes glittering.

“Do you wanna make it again?”

“Seriously?” Junhui looks around like a sack of flour will rise up through the countertop and pour itself into a bowl, like yeast will fly out of the walls and into a bowl of warm water that’s spontaneously formed on the countertop. “Are we really making more?”

Jihoon leans back with a hearty guffaw. “Of course not,” he answers. “It takes like four hours.” Junhui narrows his eyes. “I just wanted to see what you would say, is all. I don’t even have enough flour.” Another sip, long enough to let Junhui admire the smooth slope of his neck. He gulps.

“Is bread supposed to be a metaphor, perhaps?” Junhui asks at last. Jihoon’s lips curl.

“It could be a metaphor, I guess.”

“Bread is not a very sexy metaphor, Jihoon.” Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be sexy if it gets the point across.” Junhui guesses he’s right.

Clichéd movies say it sometimes, and old straight people say it sometimes, and Junhui has never been incredibly inclined to put much faith in either of those sources, but he sees now that the difference between having sex and making love is vast and deep as differences come, universes at odds with one another. He gets it in the way he feels Jihoon’s breath on his neck, hands in his hair, electric fingertips running everywhere the wind takes them, smooth and warm and tireless. He gets it in the way Jihoon’s eyes fall shut, the way his cool palms trace a heartbeat in every individual vertebrae, the way he feels like all his organs have failed but something’s still keeping him alive. He gets it in the way he feels like a whole person, far more than one but not quite two, a vital part of a perfect machine. He gets it now in a way he never expected to.

Jihoon’s bed is so different from the couch when he lies in it, lets his head drop to a pillow. It’s different in size and temperature, different in the way the mattress holds up his back. It’s different because Jihoon is there beside him, chest heaving its slow breaths as his mind hauls itself toward slumber. A few fingers prod at Junhui’s upper thigh as he lies and waits for sleep to take him.

“Your tattoo is cuter than I remember,” Jihoon hums. Junhui’s laughter rumbles low in his chest.

“You were drunk last time you saw it,” he points out. Jihoon snorts. He’s always so perfectly the same, Junhui thinks.

“I guess,” Jihoon concedes. “But I mean it.”

“Well, thanks.” One of those rhythms Jihoon is always tapping bounces over the skin there, over the inked dots and lines, a strange time signature more heart than song.

“I really do like that tattoo,” he murmurs. “I think it suits you.” The hand at Junhui’s thigh makes a lazy trail for itself, follows all the way up over his chest and across his neck, around to his ear where it curls and pats the side of his cheek with the gentle care of a mother handling her newborn child. “I like how it matches.”

By the change in breaths, Junhui can tell Jihoon fades to black right after that, dips into a pool of dreams deeper than he’ll ever be able to swim. Junhui would like to say he likes how they match, too. He’d like to say he’s never once liked that before but he’s starting to, has never once felt like they were anything special or worth paying attention to but now he wants to. Even if Jihoon were still awake to hear it, he doubts he’d be able to find the steeled guts to say he’s glad Jihoon thinks he matches because this is the first time he’s felt like he matched, but it still sits inside him.

There are parts to every whole. There is a night to every day, a land to every sea, a dusk to every dawn. Junhui doesn’t care which half is which. He’s only glad he has Jihoon to match him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't take that fuck you at the beginning to heart folks. it's not meant for u. anyhow HELLO here is this update, and with this here, this fic is now officially the longest thing i have ever written in my life! sheeeeeeeeit. it's fuckin. it's long. also i think we'll be wrapping up in about 5 more chapters?? don't quote me on that tho. sometimes things don't quite go according to plan. but for now that is the assumed endpoint. ALSO! WE HIT 200 KUDOS LAST TIME THANK YOU SO MUCH! WHAT THE FUCK!!! i never expected such a great response from this fic and i'm very warmed... i cherish every one of u who's read so far truly  
> i hope u enjoyed this chapter even tho it wasn't too exciting. school is getting pretty crazy with assignments and stuff as the semester starts to approach its end so i'm not sure how timely my updates will become, but i'm going to try and do my best i swear. i just want to deliver the content folks and i'm becoming a very busy bee  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! once again, i hope you enjoyed, and i'll see you back here with the next update!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a talk.

From the moment he walks into the office Monday morning, Junhui expects Jeonghan to accost him. Materialize in the shadow behind the door, shout at him from forty feet away, maybe even slither out from under his desk the second he’s sat down. It would be more natural for Jeonghan to appear as liquid between the keys on his computer that pours itself into the mold of a man than for him not to show up, to say nothing at all, yet that he does. The quiet as Junhui stalks to his desk is calm and suffocating, air too starchy for his lungs to handle, and as much as he knows he’ll probably hate himself for it later, he picks himself right back up the second he’s made contact with the seat and marches back to find Jeonghan.

Jeonghan gets to have a real office because of his family connections, and though it’s a little cramped and not necessarily any better than Junhui’s desk sitting out in the open, it has its enviable points. The walls are very neatly decorated with photographs, most of which Junhui is sure Jeonghan took: flowers, buildings, Seokmin, the sky, dogs, more of Seokmin, some of Seokmin that have Jeonghan in them, too. Junhui doesn’t usually come back here, but it’s good to refresh his memory sometimes, to remind himself what a nice little setup he’s got going on. It’s a calm space, calm and warm, makes him feel soft pink the odd time or two every year he finds himself between those walls.

As he takes his first few quiet steps in through the doorway Jeonghan is too lazy to ever block off, he finds the man in question deep in thought at his chair, lips in a pensive purse, staring down the blank computer screen two feet from his nose. It’s a crying shame to break him out of a state so uncommonly thoughtful, but Junhui does it anyway with a tentative cough, soft at first, louder when Jeonghan’s attention doesn’t split from its empty focus. After just a few coughs, he finally turns his head, eyes brown and warm and pretty as they had been when he first apologized for soaking Junhui’s backpack in coffee so many years ago. His lips find a smile, but it lacks most of its usual bite.

“What brings you to my office, lowly urchin?” Junhui frowns. He’s trying hard to be at his usual levels of unbearableness, but he’s not quite there. Something about it doesn’t sit right, flips around in Junhui’s stomach and makes him uneasy and almost a little sad. He leans against the door jamb and surveys with careful eyes, watching for any stray dust mote in the room that might be causing the disarray. Not a speck out of place. A thin sigh trails between his teeth.

“I know you want to talk to me about Jihoon,” he charges. The corner of Jeonghan’s mouth quirks just enough, just like it always has, just to let Junhui know he’s right. “What’s with making me make you ask about it instead of bleeding it out of me like usual?” Jeonghan scoffs and raises a hand to his chin, lets his smile dip a little dimmer.

“I’m a man of tactics,” he confesses, familiar glint of mischief coming to light once more at the edges of his irises. “Go to lunch with me today.”

“I’m a taken man.” Jeonghan guffaws and nudges his mouse, brings the monitor to life with a warm gradient of light. The picture decorating the desktop is a new one, Seokmin wearing a glowing smile with Marbles in his arms. They must have gone to a park—Jeonghan and a cloudless blue sky reflect in his sunglasses.

“I’m very aware and surprised by that daily,” Jeonghan tells him, “but some conversations are better had outside of the office.” He clicks through to a file that doesn’t seem to have much in it and shoos Junhui away with his free hand. “Leave me. I’ll come get you later.”

Later comes, and Jeonghan arrives with all his usual pushiness but much less of his usual scathing, dragging Junhui out of his chair and straight through the door to get them started on a walk to some predetermined lunch destination Jeonghan probably decided on within the hour. Birds sing from perches Junhui can’t see, careless and light, free warbles filling the air around the harsh manmade sounds of traffic and construction. It’s a bright sound, pale and yellow, and it paints the air in shades of spring and birth Junhui’s forgotten he knew the palettes of.

A soft ring marks their entrance into Jeonghan’s restaurant of choice, a quiet little deli situated on the end of a snug little strip mall, buzzing with the midday hum of more local employees on their lunch breaks, hushed chatter over pickle spears and French dips. They purchase their sandwiches and mosey out to the little patio space on the end, seat themselves in the wire grate chairs growing warmer as the sun dangles at its daily peak. Jeonghan pinches a straw between his teeth and takes a slow sip of ginger ale.

“So,” he begins, leisurely and calm, eyes folded closed in perfect crescents, “let’s have a talk.” His irises reflect the sun when they reveal themselves again, tiny flecks of gold dancing among warm rings of chestnut. “About Jihoon.”

“Well.” Junhui shrugs, takes a bite of his sandwich, swallows, shrugs again. “Let’s talk about him, then.” Jeonghan nods his head and stretches his mouth in a thin smile that says he knew from the start he’d have to do all the heavy lifting but still isn’t happy about it.

“Yeah.” Another sip, long and drawn out. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I’m mad enough to kill you and the next fifteen people I see over you proving yourself to be a chronic fibber _once again_ ”—his voice is so acidic when he spits it Junhui can feel his skin start to peel away—“but even more than that…” A thick sigh wobbles out from between his lips, tired and sinking at the corners. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” Junhui’s shoulders shift in discomfort, bunching higher and lowering slowly back down. It’s always awkward for him the one time every five years Jeonghan is genuinely earnest about caring.

“I knew you would tell me it was a bad idea to keep seeing him,” Junhui confesses. He feels very distinctly teenager-caught-doing-something-wrong under the way Jeonghan stares at him, and he hates it.

“Because it’s obviously a terrible idea,” Jeonghan scoffs. His straw knocks into fragments of ice when he swirls it around his glass, a soft and off-key sort of wind chime that needs no breeze. Junhui reckons it would sound a thousand times closer to a symphony if Jihoon did it. “How long have you known?” Junhui chews his lip, wonders whether he should tell the truth, then decides he probably ought not waste Jeonghan’s last moment of legitimate care for the next several years.

“Since I first met him.” Jeonghan chokes on his next sip of ginger ale very quietly.

“You’ve been…” He blows out a breath through his nose, thick with frustration. Eyebrows draw tight together and wrinkle his forehead. “My god, Junhui. How can I not feel sad for you when you do this shit to yourself?” A tiny wobble dances under his voice, dots of moisture in the corners of his eyes, and Junhui knows he’s expending his entire lifetime’s worth of empathy today even if he doesn’t want to be. “I know I told you I didn’t want you to be alone, but… Jesus, this is so much worse.”

“I know,” Junhui admits, reluctant, tired, “but listen. You have to get it. Think about Seokmin.” Jeonghan presses his lips into a flat line that looks more resigned than pugnacious.

“The situation with me and Seokmin is completely different,” he says slowly, each word careful and measured. They travel with only as much weight as Jeonghan wants to give them and nothing more.

“You know it’s not,” Junhui tells him. Jeonghan huffs.

“I know,” he groans, “but it still pisses me off. On your behalf.”

“Sorry,” Junhui says without much apology. Jeonghan stares into his plastic cup and punches at the ice with the straw in thought. “I didn’t want this either, you know. He just wanted help kicking items off his bucket list.” Junhui tears off the edge of a piece of lettuce sticking beyond the bounds of his top bun. “I couldn’t help it.” Jeonghan eyes him dubiously before nodding in reluctant concession.

“I guess that’s true,” he grumbles, “but I wish you would have at least told me sooner. I’m your friend whether you like it or not.” He finds the sparse clouds above wistfully and gives them a long stare, like they’re friends as well, far off answers to his worries. “I think Seokmin could tell, anyway. He said something after Christmas about Jihoon seeming a little unusual, but I thought he was just being weird.”

“He’s scary sometimes with how right he can be,” Junhui muses, and Jeonghan responds with a serious nod.

“You’re telling me.” It’s weary in only the fondest of ways. A fly comes to rest at the edge of the table and rubs its nasty little legs together in buggish greed before Jeonghan shoos it away. “Can I ask you a few things?” How very unlike you to ask for permission first, Junhui almost says, but Jeonghan is being nice enough today that he has to bite his tongue.

“Go ahead.”

“Why isn’t Jihoon getting treatment?”

Junhui parts his lips to deliver the very simple answer he quickly realizes he doesn’t have. Why isn’t Jihoon getting treatment, he reminds his hanging jaw while Jeonghan waits, but all he gets is his brain telling him it doesn’t know. Doesn’t know? That can’t be. He’s asked. Or maybe he just had a dream where he asked? Even if he dreamt it, he can’t remember the dream answer, not that a dream answer even counts. By the looks of how Jeonghan is squinting, Junhui’s limp jaw has alerted him to his ignorance.

“Junhui, please don’t tell me you don’t know that.”

“Well, I don’t know it.” Jeonghan throws his hands to the sky.

“You’re telling me the man with whom you are in love is dying”—the weight he puts on that word is heavy, too heavy for Junhui to be comfortable with—“and you don’t even know why he’s not doing anything to stop it?”

“I just never asked,” Junhui defends with a frown. “Don’t look at me like that. If you were sick, would you want everybody to ask you that?”

“No,” Jeonghan tells him plainly, taking another sip, “but I would at least want Seokmin to ask.”

A rebuttal is on the tip of Junhui’s lips for just a moment before he realizes it doesn’t have enough substance to sound anywhere near decent should he release it and also that Jeonghan is probably reasonable to say that and he ought not try to rebut anything anyway. Teeth dig into his cheek while he looks for a way to dilute Jeonghan’s outrage.

“It’s probably because of money,” Junhui excuses, and he feels it curdle in his stomach when Jeonghan nods, minutely suspect but altogether understanding. “Treatment is expensive.”

Treatment is expensive for sure, but the more Junhui thinks about it, the more he thinks that can’t be the reason, at least not the only one. Jihoon told him he’s got savings specifically for knocking his bucket list down, and that can’t be nothing if he bought two short notice plane tickets out of the country and booked a hotel like it was nothing. Maybe it’s not quite enough to make treatment a comfortable price, but it can’t be anything to sneeze at either, must be at least an amount that would help to make it more reasonable. If it’s not that, Junhui doesn’t know what it is. It could be any number of things or all of them put together, and it’s driving a stake through his center that he never even thought to ask before. Sunlight refracts through the gradually melting ice in his cup to remind him once more of time’s ceaseless passage.

“Are you ignoring me?” Jeonghan asks, snapping his fingers, one impatient beat that brings Junhui back to the present.

“Yes,” Junhui says. “You’re boring.”

“You dare insult me when I’ve so graciously paid for your lunch?”

“Thanks for so graciously paying for my lunch, buddy.” For a minute, Junhui can see Jeonghan contemplating the worth of their friendship in his eyes. Very transparent, this man. Junhui finds comfort in how little he changes.

“So,” he begins again, eyes sharp, shining, “as I was saying before your terrible attention span so rudely interrupted me, do you think you’ll get married?” Junhui is saved from choking by having nothing in his mouth, but it’s a close call nonetheless.

“I really don’t think we have the time for that.” Regret drips from every syllable despite how much work he does to keep it at bay. Jeonghan has always been good at prodding sore spots by accident.

“It only takes a day, Junhui,” Jeonghan informs him. “Not even that long, actually.”

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant by ‘don’t have time.’”

“I know that’s not what you meant,” he confesses, “but I’m just saying you may as well use what you have.” He leans across the table with a saccharine grin Junhui isn’t sure he should trust. “I’ll shoot your wedding for free, and if he realizes he doesn’t like you, he doesn’t even have to waste time filing for divorce.”

“Gee, thanks,” Junhui says, wooden. “Very compelling points.” Jeonghan’s laughter bounces off the wall of the building beside them, and Junhui wonders if it’s grating the ears of the other patrons, too.

“Take a joke, you clown,” he commands. Easy for you to say, Junhui thinks. And they’d been doing so well today. A crying shame. Jeonghan’s visage sobers without a shred more of hesitation. “But I’m serious. About using your time. And also about shooting your wedding.” Junhui sighs.

“Thanks,” he manages, because he doesn’t have the heart to deny the favor as strongly as he ought to and probably never will. Jeonghan’s lips bring themselves back to a grin, more genuine this time, a rare kind of sincerity that drives Junhui in two. His palm smacks against the warm grate of the tabletop.

“Time’s a-wasting,” Jeonghan says like Junhui’s awareness of the fact is not already stunning in its acuteness. “Let’s finish our lunch and get back to the office.”

As much as Junhui would like to stop thinking about not knowing why Jihoon isn’t getting treatment, he can’t get it off his mind once he realizes that bit of information is still in the dark. Why hadn’t he ever thought to ask? He never realized Jihoon took medicine until he explicitly mentioned it, so maybe it’s just that he’s a little dense of a guy, but he’s still fairly certain he should know this by now, should have asked it already, asked before many of the other things he’s spent his time asking.

If Jihoon wanted him to know, wouldn’t he just tell him? Junhui groans before he even finishes thinking it. Of course not. He isn’t the open book Junhui wishes he would be, the kind that lets every detail stand proud in the open for anyone with eyes to come find. He is a dusty tome concealed in the thickness of the library’s farthest shelf, giving up its information only after a careful reader’s taken the time to leaf through every page. Though Junhui was never much of a scholar in his formal education days, he’s content to be that very reader, but he gets the sinking feeling that he didn’t pay quite enough attention to the details at the start of his research, and it’s so much work to go turning back through.

Dance lessons that week bring with them the advent of jive. Soonyoung seems especially excited about a whole new dance to teach after spending such a long time on swing, and his every cell bursts with energy while he demonstrates the very first basic step of the evening in front of his small audience. Junhui thinks he might go blind from the way his smile reflects off every mirror in the studio and reinforces itself to infinity, but he’s nonetheless excited to start learning the jive. The music is upbeat and lively when it kicks on, but something else still has yet to capture him the way that first waltz had.

This style features a different stance and a new handhold that lets Junhui feel all too easily how quickly Jihoon’s palm grows slick. There’s so much leg movement and the music is so fast, and he’s wobbling with the steps so soon it makes Junhui’s stomach turn, starving for breath the stale studio air won’t give him. The look Soonyoung gives him is full of worry, worry that’s less his and more concern for how worried Junhui must be, and it sends a brutal pang up his spine because Soonyoung is worried when he doesn’t even get it, when he doesn’t even know anything. No matter how many times Junhui asks Jihoon if he wants to take a break, he insists through ragged breaths that he can do it.

After Friday’s lesson is over, they drive back to Jihoon’s apartment and head upstairs to spend a little time doing nothing. Jihoon digs a small tub of ice cream out from the freezer and brings two spoons along with it when he settles onto the couch, sinking until his back rests flush against the whole of Junhui’s chest. There’s a certain kind of care in the nonchalant way he hands a spoon back, a muted understatement of thoughtfulness that Junhui is attentive enough to catch but not literary enough to comment on. He takes the spoon and carves himself out a decent scoop of vanilla. It’s sweet, he thinks, sweeter than regular, and it probably hasn’t got much to do with the recipe.

To feel someone else’s heartbeat resound through your own chest is an interesting and wonderful thing, Junhui thinks. To hear the television as background noise and see its screen as nothing more than a lit backdrop behind what’s so much closer to you, to feel the subtle heave of each breath in a different chest and feel it is what’s pumping air into yours, filling your lungs and sails alike. To exist in tandem and live in conjunction, impossibly parts of some same whole. It’s a very strange thing indeed, a strange thing Junhui never thought he’d live to experience but is experiencing nonetheless. He’s been wrong before, he supposes. With lethargic arms, he feeds himself another cold scoop.

Jihoon pats a lazy tune on his thigh, down toward the knee and back up to where his hip joins his torso, low bounces that don’t stay in the air very long. The way his head lolls a little to the side tells Junhui he’s starting to get tired, but he still hasn’t made any move to go to bed. “When we go visit my parents,” he begins, tilting his nose more Junhui’s direction, flicking his eyes as far as he can get away with, “I want to make a little detour. Is that okay with you?”

“Anything you want to do is okay with me.” Jihoon snorts, chases it with a short bark of a laugh that blows mostly through his nose.

“That’s a pretty risky thing to say.”

“How?” Junhui jostles him, nudges with his elbow, pokes at his knee. He feels like a child in every way, but not enough to stop. “Are you going to say you want to rob a bank or something?” Jihoon swats at the annoyances bombarding him, cool fingertips that send tiny sparks of chill into small pockets of Junhui’s nerves.

“Obviously not,” he scoffs, “but do you really think you can trust that I won’t?”

“Would you lie to me?” Junhui tries his best to get a good look into Jihoon’s eyes, but his face is still angled too much toward the television.

“No,” Jihoon tells him. Junhui ruffles the back of Jihoon’s hair, teases with his fingers, and Jihoon’s neck tenses like he can’t decide whether to lean into it or flee.

“Then I can trust you.” Jihoon rolls his eyes so far they drag his head along with him, turn it until he’s leveled his gaze with Junhui’s. A sliver of the TV show glints at the edges of his glasses, and Junhui tries not to watch it.

“You can’t just trust someone because they say you can trust them.”

“Why not?”

“That’s how you get tricked,” he huffs, impatient. Junhui can only barely tell that his agitation is faux instead of genuine. “That’s what kids do.”

“I thought you liked that about me,” Junhui drawls with a grin. Jihoon leans in closer, matches the grin with a sneer that has more charm than it should.

“I said the good ways,” Jihoon says back, slow and careful, “not the ways that get kids abducted by strangers.” He pats Junhui’s shoulder a few times gently, lets his hand rest there after it’s stopped moving. “There’s a big difference.” The hand slides from Junhui’s shoulder to his chest and lingers there, too, hot in its typical chill, enough to burn a hole through Junhui’s shirt and next ten layers of skin but not quite enough to be felt at all.

“Whatever you say.” Junhui creeps closer, closer, until his nose is so close to touching Jihoon’s that he can feel remote gravitational force on its tip. Jihoon doesn’t back up more than a hair, and Junhui takes the time to count his eyelashes. “I still trust you.” Jihoon groans, loud enough to reach Junhui’s ears but too soft to travel any farther. A heavy silence hangs between them for only a moment before Junhui leans forward to take Jihoon’s lips in a kiss and Jihoon leans forward to meet him. Everything is vanilla, warm and sweet and comfortable, and the noise of the television sinks further and further into the background until it’s too far for Junhui to hear any longer.

Junhui spends the night again, thinks while he waits for his consciousness to drown in the black vastness of the ceiling that he really ought to ask Jihoon why it is he’s not getting treatment, but there are so many better times to ask something like that, times when he’s not on the cusp of slumber, when Jihoon’s breath isn’t already a worriless even beside him, when his thoughts aren’t muddy like the backroads his high school bus used to take after a heavy rain. Part of him wishes for a rain, a rain on the second half of the season, to wash the dirt away and clear the paths once more, to deliver answers to questions he doesn’t want to ask, to beat the quiet background noise of his thoughts back down. Despite all the wishing in the world, no such rain comes.

The following morning sees their northbound drive to Jihoon’s parents, quiet and calm in the lack of workday traffic, and it dawns on Junhui how accustomed he’s grown to seeing Jihoon in the passenger’s seat of his car when only months ago he’d been so used to seeing it empty, how familiar the sight is now of sunlight filtered through a blanket of clouds glinting off the sides of Jihoon’s lenses, the black case of his camera being guarded by two hands, beautiful hands with long fingers in graceful curves. He never thought he’d feel comfortable with the radio’s sound only when a low voice hummed along, but he misses that hum when he hears a song and Jihoon’s not around to back it, misses the way it makes gardens grow beneath the skin of his chest. How incredible and terrifying for the life of another to weave itself so wholly into your own before you’ve had time to notice.

Jihoon’s parents live in a very quiet assisted living community just near the center of the town where Jihoon grew up, fringed on every side by trees with bright baby green leaves and flowerbeds freshly planted for the new spring. They slide into a spot somewhere deep in the catacombs of the mostly vacant lot behind the building Jihoon is sure he remembers his parents living in. A hand grasps at Junhui’s shoulder before he gets the chance to open his door.

“Before we go in,” Jihoon starts, thumb tracing the case on his lap, “you need to know my parents don’t know I’m sick.” His face is laden with urgency, a worrying light that cascades over every slope. “Don’t bring it up.”

“They don’t know?” Junhui can’t imagine the thought of his own mother not knowing something like that, the thought of his brother being kept in the dark. Jihoon nods.

“I don’t want to worry them with it,” he explains. “They’re not in great shape themselves, and I don’t know if it’s news they could handle. I don’t know if they know how to handle it.” Junhui wants to ask what that means, but Jihoon pulls the handle to his door and pushes it open before he can, taking the camera and the anniversary gift with him and leaving Junhui little option but to follow in silence.

Assisted living facilities are strange places, wrought with the illusion of spacious independence while being completely overrun with the notion of captive inability. Junhui’s grandmother lived in a place just like this in her later years, after his grandfather was already gone, a place set up to look like an apartment but made to feel too close to a daycare, all proofed and secured for brittle bones and withered skin. Even the smell is the same, that strange, bland scent of carpet and days-old linen, the lingering traces of unlit candles and scrubbed bathroom tile. Junhui’s head is held in the present only by Jihoon’s outline leading in front of him.

The sound of the buzzer is too harsh, too loud for a place so quiet and empty, and so is the click of the door when it unlocks, the rattle of the elevator when it slides open. Harsh echoes clang around between Junhui’s ears while they pad over the soft brown carpet on the third floor until they reach a dull green door with a big 306 stamped upon it in tarnished numerals. Jihoon knocks, loud and fast, face a picture of stone, and after eons of waiting, the door eases open with unimaginable slowness and a soul-rending creak.

Jihoon’s parents are old, old like he always said but somehow even older than Junhui expected. They almost look more like grandparents, closer to what Junhui’s own grandparents had looked like when he was just starting high school, stooped and hobbling with steps so slow and shaky he wonders how they made it to the door and if they’ll be able to make it back. Jihoon’s mother is the one with a hand on the doorknob, arthritic fingers curled painfully around the dull sphere of brass, and she does nothing but stand and stare at Jihoon once she’s finally got the door opened, expression completely blank. Junhui’s heart stops and revives ten times before her face creases in a surprised grin.

“Jihoon!” she crows, craning her neck to find the husband waddling up behind her. “Jihoon is here!”

“Who’s here?” comes his gruff reply, eyes narrowed behind thick spectacles.

“Your son,” his wife calls back, louder. “Jihoon.”

“Who?” Creaking steps bring him slowly around until he can appraise Jihoon’s face for himself, and he does so with a similar glaze of emptiness until the fog in his eyes seems to clear. “Jihoon,” he mutters warmly, corners of his mouth tilting up in a fashion that is remarkably familiar. His attention turns to Junhui with the energy of a slug, gradual and intimidating. “Who’re you?”

“This is Junhui. He’s a friend of mine,” Jihoon tells them, and his face stiffens at the word _friend_ , voice tightens, too subtle for his parents’ aged eyes to catch but enough for Junhui to notice. “Can we come in?”

“A friend!” His mother backs up with as much speed as her tired legs will allow, bustling over to the tiny kitchen and opening the refrigerator with almost excessive care. “By all means, come in. You’ve never brought a friend before.” She extracts a pitcher of lemonade and begins rummaging through the cupboard for glasses to pour it into. Junhui’s instincts are telling him to run and help, but they’re also telling him not to leave Jihoon’s side, so he stays put while Jihoon’s dad closes the door and ushers them inside.

“What’s his name?” he asks, low and grouchy, as he follows them toward the couch near the back of the living room. It sits just in front of a large window with the saddest view Junhui’s ever seen, a wide display of the carless parking lot and sparse trees surrounding it, a fence of green to keep the perfect stillness in and the noisy commotion out. A vacant birdhouse sits high in the tree second closest to the building, small opening yawning in want of company.

“Junhui,” Jihoon says, much louder than he usually speaks. Junhui eyes the coiled wire of his father’s hearing aid around his ear.

“What?”

“Junhui,” calls the name’s holder himself this time, almost a shout, and Jihoon very nearly escapes his skin in surprise, but his dad seems to hear it a little better, nods a few times and grumbles it under his breath. They ease themselves onto the couch with yet another lengthy creak and wait for Jihoon’s mother to arrive with two half-filled glasses of cold lemonade. She takes a seat in the armchair adjacent to that in which her husband sits and eyes the pair with a fond twinkle in her eyes.

“So, Junhui,” she begins, half-slurring-half-mumbling the name like she’s not entirely sure what it is, “how do you know each other? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a photographer,” he says, patting the camera Jihoon’s transferred to his lap. “We, uh”—he combs his brain for a lie that makes sense and does not include online dating or illness—“we’re neighbors.” Jihoon sighs in relief. “He came to say hello when I moved in, and we got to being friends after that.”

“He did?” Her smile turns curious, uncertain. “That’s unusual. Jihoon was never that type of boy when he was little. He was always so shy.” Dreams find her gaze, take her away to a past where things were different, where her family was younger and healthier. “He was so shy he would never—”

“I’m _an adult_ now,” Jihoon coughs, red. Junhui’s heart forgets its job for a second, hands almost forget that they need be kept to himself before he gently reminds them he’s just a friend for now. Jihoon lifts the gift bag sitting on the floor between his feet as a segue. “Anyway, I came because your anniversary is coming up and I got you this.”

“You remembered our anniversary?” his mother asks, reaching forward in vain for the handle of the bag. Jihoon walks it over himself, places it gently in her lap for her to rummage through.

“I always remember your anniversary,” Jihoon claims. He watches as her hesitant fingers pick apart his meticulous cover of tissue paper. “Junhui helped me pick that out.” A hand comes to rest on Junhui’s knee and squeezes, light and reassuring, enough to remind him he’s still on earth. When he looks at Jihoon, there is calm sunlight coming from somewhere behind his eyes.

“They’re so nice,” she says once she’s uncovered them completely, thrusting them in her husband’s direction. “Honey, look.”

His eyes are fixed unmoving on the window, more on the glass than on the scenery outside, dull and unseeing, brow drawn together in concern. His attention diverts only after a minute of vigorous shaking, irises clearing of their clouds and dropping to rest on the tiny houses in her hand. He grabs for them, confused, inspecting the tiny shingles etched onto their miniscule rooves before looking to his spouse for answers.

“What’s this?”

“For our anniversary,” she explains.

“What?”

“For our anniversary,” she echoes, louder.

“Oh.” He turns his head back to face the window, but his attention snags, gets caught on Junhui before he makes it back. “Jihoon, who’s this friend of yours?”

“Junhui,” Jihoon says. Deafening. His father nods.

“What’s he do for a living?” Something clicks in Junhui’s head when he hears the question, when he hears Jihoon suck in a breath and push it back out slowly.

“I’m a photographer,” Junhui repeats, sure to enunciate loudly. Jihoon’s dad bobs his head in understanding and turns his attention back to the gray veil of clouds beyond the glass pane before him.

Before they leave, Jihoon’s dad asks for Junhui’s name and occupation twice more, asks about the traffic and the weather three times, and Junhui starts to understand what Jihoon meant about his parents not knowing how to handle the news of his illness. Even his mother looks at times like she wants to ask, like she can’t quite recall why there are two men seated on her sofa instead of just one, even when Junhui stands to capture a few shots of the two parents with their son between. He feels something burning along every one of his ribs when they clamber back in the elevator and the exhaustion wears itself so plainly on Jihoon’s face, in the hollows of his cheeks and around the pits of his eyes. He feels only half there when Junhui grabs onto his shoulder and gives a squeeze.

“You alright?” he asks, gentle, careful not to stir the air too much or speak too loud. Jihoon nods and rubs at his eyes under his glasses.

“I’m fine,” he breathes weakly, half a sigh. “It’s just a little hard to visit sometimes.” Junhui draws his hand in tremulous circles over Jihoon’s back, wide and deep, until he feels the slump to his shoulders pull itself a little straighter.

“Still up for your detour?” he asks. Jihoon nods, shallow tilts of the head not completely unlike his father’s.

“Yeah.” His voice is close to hollow, too close, but it’s still whole enough to be safe. He fixes Junhui with a thin smile, dry and forced, a thin sliver cracking through Junhui’s core. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

The bistro Jihoon guides them to sits on the edge of a long cluster of buildings, in the middle of a city just a bit east of the place Jihoon grew up. It’s mostly empty, only a handful of patrons and a few employees milling about inside when they pull up, and Junhui is grateful for it, as the only parking is parallel and metered in front of the establishment’s strip of sidewalk. Junhui sweats with nerves until they’re safely tucked into a spot without incident, waits quietly while Jihoon slips a short stack of quarters into the meter before leading him inside.

A river runs around behind the bistro, visible through a large window at the restaurant’s back, the other half of the city’s skyline standing up against the gray backdrop outlining it. A host seats them at a booth in the back, right next to the window, and Junhui finds his vision flicking to it unusually often, to the gray blue waters churning below, beating intently at the stone boundaries keeping them locked in. Jihoon’s voice almost blends in with the ambient music rattling out of the speakers when he starts talking.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” he says, hushed, and it grabs Junhui’s attention immediately even in its stunning softness. The club sandwich on his plate sits largely untouched, less than half eaten, and Jihoon doesn’t look much in the mood to finish it.

“No need to thank me,” Junhui tells him, extending a hand across the table to wrap around Jihoon’s fingers. They’re icy as always. “I’m happy to come with you.” Jihoon’s thumb wanders to the backs of Junhui’s fingers to stroke cold lines over the ridges in his knuckles, mouth curling into a smile, real and small and drained.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He throws a glance out to the river to fish words out before saying anything else. “You saw my parents are really old.” Something in his tone pulls the strings in Junhui’s heart taut, draws a bow carefully over them. “They didn’t have me until they were already pretty old. It was hard for them, and they tried so many times, and it was sort of a miracle I was born in the first place.” The white splotches of sky reflect in the sheen over his eyes more than in the crystalline planes of his lenses. Junhui’s chest aches for it. “It’s not that I don’t want them to know I’m sick, but I just can’t ruin that for them.”

“Jihoon…” A sentence starts to form itself in Junhui’s mind, but it dies before he can start to say it. What is there to say? He can’t think of a way to make this gentler, to lift the undue burden from Jihoon’s over-saddled shoulders, to paint a genuine smile on those lips, one without worries and without illness. All his brain can manage is to do is make sure his hand doesn’t leave Jihoon’s, so that it does, sit still and sure, the one and only firm tether this universe can muster for the two of them. Jihoon’s face is calm, smooth, sated with the absence of words Junhui can’t give him. Death and rebirth are one in feeling when Jihoon shifts his hand around and slides his fingers between Junhui’s.

“It’s enough that you’re here,” he says, thick with meaning, ponderous with unspoken words squeezed between. Junhui wants to believe the smile Jihoon’s lips crawl into is true just as much as he wants to believe in the one he offers back.

After they’ve finished eating, Jihoon guides them out the door and past the car, down the sidewalk a few blocks until the buildings start to give way to a flatter square and a bigger expanse of road, until the latticed bronze sides of a bridge rise to their waists and Jihoon leads them onto it. While they walk further out toward the bridge’s center, Junhui notices a number of abnormalities dangling on the crossed bars beside them, occasionally glinting even in the minimal sunlight. On closer inspection, they prove themselves to be locks, clustered very thinly at widespread points along the bridge. Jihoon turns around to face Junhui when they sidle up to one of the most congested patches.

“Any hunches about what we’re doing?” he asks, a full grin blooming in protest of the wind that rips at them from over the water. Some people are so much more like stars than human beings, Junhui thinks.

“We’re really putting a lock on this bridge?” Jihoon nods and digs a golden padlock from the depths of his pocket, key still firmly stuck in its hole. “Where did you get that?”

“I bought this a while ago.” He swings it back and forth on his finger, a mesmerizing metronome in the midst of the wind’s chaotic song. “I know this isn’t one of the really cool lock bridges in Paris or anything, but I’ve always wanted to put a lock on one.”

“I’m not complaining. There’s more real estate.” A black scribble on one of the lock’s faces catches his attention while Jihoon fiddles with it. “Did you write something on it?” Jihoon pinks. It may just be the effects of the wind, but Junhui suspects it might not be.

“It has our names on it,” he says, very plainly trying not to be embarrassed, but a slight crack gives him away. Junhui extends his hand to collect it, and Jihoon tosses it over for inspection. Sure enough, their names are both there in proud black ink, crossing over each other in an awkward X, _H_ ’s squeezing beside each other in their junction. Junhui peruses it carefully with pursed lips, stroking his chin in thought.

“Your handwriting is cute,” he says at last. Jihoon groans. “Why are our names crossing like that?”

“I couldn’t decide whose name I wanted to write first, so I just crossed them,” he mumbles. Perhaps he’s hoping the sound will get lost to the gusts sweeping over them, but he must be underestimating the power of Junhui’s ears to selectively overperform. He wiggles under the weight of the gaze Junhui puts on him.

“You know I’m so in love with you, right?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious.”

“So you know it, right?” Jihoon’s exhale is rampant with a fond sort of defeat that finds itself comfortable on Junhui’s ears.

“I know it.”

“Good.” Junhui bumbles forward to wrap his arms around Jihoon’s back, lean his face into the crook of his neck and bury his nose there, resurface to press a wet kiss to his cheek. The smile that blooms on his lips is an instinct by now. “I love you.” Jihoon pats his back, rough smacks that fade with gradual quickness into a soft rhythm against his spine.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, hushed against the barrage of breeze around them. Junhui is not imagining the way Jihoon’s cheeks fill with a smile. “Now let’s just hang up the lock, yeah?”

They fix it on the fringe of the cluster beside them, a small and faintly glittering testament to their present, their presence. It glows in the dimness, the center of its own galaxy, a sun touched down on the planet beside them, and Junhui has never felt that a plain gold padlock was more than exactly that before in his life as he does now. He snaps a picture of it before they head back to the car, a picture of Jihoon looking at it, looking beyond it and over the horizon far away. It jingles behind them while they walk back, a lone wind chime of the world’s most complex melody, and it shines while it does, a beacon of forever, a light to guide every line back to its center. Junhui sees it still even when they’re back on the road, a plain gold square dancing against incoming wind.

A tug in his chest tells him they’ve just built something like home, and he lets himself believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! i am sorry for literally taking forever to write this chapter but i am so ungodly busy and when i do get the chance to write the words often don't come out quite like i want them to.... but i have managed to do it!! i will continue to do my best until we reach the end (and trust me i want this fic to end just as much as you all do lmao). let's say we've got 4 chapters left for the time being! if anything changes.... i guess we'll see huh  
> once again i hope u enjoyed this chapter! sorry if it wasn't that exciting but also life is not that exciting and you gotta get used to the real world sooner or later somehow. but for serious i do hope you liked it and i hope i can continue not to be a disappointment to at least one of us here. also did y'all see mingyu's bday v app. he was the biggest baby in the hospital i am NOT crying and don't ask why  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i offer once again my sincere hope for your enjoyment of this chapter along with my continued gratitude for all who have read, and i'll catch you again real soon!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happiest place on earth.

Jeonghan spits his coffee out, chokes it backward through his teeth and catches the runoff in his palm, a bitter brown rain. “You’re going to Disney World?” he gargles, clean hand fumbling for the tissue box on Junhui’s desk.

“Yeah.”

Jihoon brought it up while they lay in bed once. Junhui’s been finding himself in a bed that’s not his more and more often. “Have you ever been to Disney World?” he’d asked, soft and thoughtful. All the stars in ten universes would have been alive in his eyes if only Junhui had looked at them. Instead, he let his too-heavy eyelids rest where they were, folded down to mask the world in black, and groped around over the sheets until he found Jihoon’s wrist to hold onto.

“I went once in high school,” he hummed.

Junhui’s fingers tightened their small circle around Jihoon’s wrist, pressing a little more heavily against the skin there. He likes holding this place, this wrist, this fragile junction. There’s a heartbeat there that he can feel if he pays enough attention, count if he’s got the time, and he likes to feel it through his fingertips even if it’s too weird to say that out loud, likes to have the reminder of the memory he’s living in. This spot is close to Jihoon’s hands but also far enough away, far enough to call it something different. As beautiful as those hands are, as perfect and pristine, sometimes Junhui is scared he hasn’t got enough grace to touch them.

“What for?” The shallow buzz of the air conditioner drifted in mute waves over their heads, danced in the spaces between each word. “Just a family trip?”

“Choir,” Junhui told him. “I was in choir in eleventh grade.” He thought it was eleventh grade, anyway. Things start to run together the farther you get away from them. “We went there on a trip in the spring.”

“You were in choir in high school?” He heard a vague rustling, a head turning atop a pillowcase, but his eyelashes were lead. “I’ve never heard you sing.”

“I only did it because we needed a fine arts credit.” The heartbeat under his palm slowed, steady and solid, a rhythmic backbeat to fill the empty darkness. “That was the year I was in Beauty and the Beast.”

“Will you sing something for me?” Junhui pursed his lips.

“I haven’t really sung anything in a long time.”

“That doesn’t sound like a no.” A sigh, deep and rolling. It tumbled out of his mouth, rolled off the bed, crashed into the farthest wall.

“What do you want me to sing?”

“This song.” He sang the first few bars, and Junhui thought he recalled it from the radio even if he didn’t quite remember the words. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, dry and thin in its absence from practice, and Jihoon snorted every time he got the lyrics wrong, but he kept the song alive until he forgot the tune.

“You have a nice voice,” Jihoon told him, and then, “Anyway, I’ve never been to Disney.”

“And you’ve always wanted to go?” Junhui guessed. “And it’s on your bucket list, right? So what you’re trying to tell me is we’re going.” He heard Jihoon’s muted laughter sift through the air at his side, felt each minute shake of his shoulders along with it.

“How could you guess?”

“Just a hunch,” Junhui told him, cheeks still smiling, and then he fell asleep, and then he woke up, and then Jihoon mentioned it again around a cup of coffee and a kiss to the forehead, and now Junhui guesses they’re going to Disney World. Jeonghan stares at him in disbelief while he dries the spat up coffee on his palm.

“You’re really going?” he asks, an incessant echo of himself, and Junhui nods for what feels like the millionth time. “When?”

“Next month sometime, I guess.”

“Can you afford it?” He tosses the used tissue toward the wastebasket at Junhui’s feet and misses very conspicuously. Junhui does not ignore how Jeonghan locks eyes on the discarded napkin yet makes no move to pick it up and right his wrongs.

“Of course I can afford it,” Junhui scoffs, and that is the truth, but it’s also the truth that Jihoon is paying for it so he doesn’t even have that problem in the first place. Mentioning that to Jeonghan feels unwise, and the way Jeonghan’s eyes sharpen like they can detect when the entire truth is not being displayed outright makes him feel even more uneasy, but after a tense collection of seconds, he nods in defeat.

“I guess you would be able to,” he admits, “but I feel like you never take any jobs lately. You’re always doing things with Jihoon.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same if you were me?” Jeonghan shakes his head, and there’s a sadness in his eyes, a hollowness that wears away at Junhui’s gut. Eyes which usually have so much to say have fallen silent.

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan says, and ten years of exhaustion are piled on top of each word, fifteen years of friendship and over thirty years of tireless existence. “I don’t know what I would do if I were you.” He heaves himself fully to his feet to stalk back to his office and leaves Junhui alone with twelve lifetimes’ worth of thoughts upon his shoulders and a coffee-stained tissue beside his shoes.

He gets where Jeonghan is coming from—at least, he guesses he gets it. In the inevitable case that he finds himself alone, it’ll be even harder after he’s been so abominably attached, and he knows Jeonghan doesn’t want to watch him go through it, can’t even guarantee he’d let himself watch Jeonghan go through it keeping his mouth shut. But Jihoon is Jihoon, and he’s beautiful and incredible and perfect and fading, and Junhui can’t just let him go out like it doesn’t matter, can’t just act like he’s some regular person with time to spare and pencil him in at a later date. Were he not too scared to do it, Junhui could number the days they have left together, and that only makes him more scared. Jeonghan may not know what he would do, but he would know if he was forced to. So what if he thinks Junhui is an idiot who can never make good decisions for himself? Maybe Junhui is just that. But if he’s going to be such an idiot, using that idiocy to make Jihoon happy seems like a damn good cause.

When Junhui takes the time to peruse the details of their trip to Disney a little more closely, it really dawns on him how well-placed Jeonghan’s fiscal concern had been. Almost three hundred dollars for a three-day pass? And Jihoon is paying for two of them? He draws out a low whistle while he does the math in his extremely rusty mental calculator. Not to mention the plane tickets and the hotel; Jihoon sent him the hotel’s address and website, and it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at. Junhui’s brain itches with curiosity.

If Jihoon has this kind of money to spend on something like going to Disney, shouldn’t he at least be getting some kind of treatment? Even something minimal? Not that Junhui really knows what that would entail, but he’s sure Jihoon could certainly be doing something at least if he can afford to drop so much on a trip to Disney without batting an eye.

Maybe he just wants to die.

Junhui’s blood freezes in his veins. That can’t be it, surely. Stop thinking that immediately, he orders himself. Jihoon does not want to die, not actively. He’s not grateful for his sickness or glad he’s getting a pass out, not eager to see his final day any more than Junhui is. Something turns sour in the pit of his stomach, and it won’t go away no matter how much he wishes it, no matter how much he tries to stop himself from thinking about it.

He clicks through to the first file of pictures his mouse lands on in desperation for a distraction, headshots he took for some kid what feels like a million years ago. He remembers these pictures well, the sound of Jeonghan calling him an ugly sad person still fresh on his ears when he looks at them. The lighting in them is still strange, too, something he can’t put his finger on even after a million eternities. He wonders if these pictures have helped land the kid any acting jobs in the months it’s been. His eyes glide over the strange cast of light beneath the eyes, and he wonders.

Time marches itself along through two channels, one hideously slow and one so bitterly fast it keeps him from catching his breath. Junhui feels both in equal measures, in the very same meter, every last moment he spends with Jihoon. Seconds crawl by like years when he feels Jihoon’s breathing through his chest and heartbeat through his wrist, when he hears quiet songs spilling from between Jihoon’s lips, and in those very same moments, he loses himself to the grains funneling through the hourglass, loses everything in the way Jihoon’s eyes have a tendency to light up when he laughs. It slips right through his hands, the world’s finest powder through its most lenient sieve, and he has little power beyond watching it drift by. He lives twenty years longer looking into Jihoon’s eyes. He blinks once, and they’re boarding a plane to Orlando.

The air is balmy when they land, paints upon them a layer of moisture neither liquid nor vapor, a strange and summery sort of dew that sinks below the skin and straight into the bones. It has its own distinct flavor, a slice of blue sky sprinkled with sunshine, and Junhui takes deep breaths to fill his lungs with it, eyes scanning the cloudless horizon as they walk out to the rental lot. Palm trees dot the strip of green along the road in even intervals, catching gold on the broad sweeps of their leaves, and from this distance, Junhui thinks they almost look fake, but he still grabs for his camera on instinct, whips it out to capture a few shots of their neat row.

“Are you really taking pictures of the palm trees?” Jihoon asks, impatient, feet stalled in front of his suitcase. Junhui flicks a glance his way, briefly drinks in the sight of the prescription sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt and the breeze ruffling his hair.

“Yeah. They’re pretty.” He wiggles his fingers. “Come over here and get in the shot.” Jihoon groans.

“Why?”

“To make it prettier.” He groans again, but drags his feet and his luggage back across the pavement anyway to slide into the frame. The afternoon sunlight dances spectacularly over his skin and through his hair, drips down the slopes of his face like honey. Maybe it’s just the Florida air, but something about him looks healthier. There’s more pink in his cheeks, in his knuckles, around his elbows. Junhui’s glad he can capture whatever it is in still frames.

“I know I initially said I was okay with it,” Jihoon says with a heavy exhale as the sound of the shutter flits across the air, “but why do you take so many pictures of me?”

“We’ve talked about this.” Shutter. “You’re beautiful.” Shutter. “I like to preserve it.” Shutter.

“Beautiful,” he scoffs. “And what do you need to preserve it for, anyway?” Even the irate scowl on his face is charming beyond words. A nice reminder of how very deep Junhui’s dug himself.

“For me.” Jihoon buries his face in his palms. “Chin up, I’m not taking any more. Let’s go get the car.”

“Wait just a second.” Jihoon sticks his hand out in patient expectance, palm up and empty as he glares at Junhui. “Let me take some of you.” The way his jaw is set says he isn’t budging, so Junhui hands the camera over without argument. After four slow pictures snapped from marginally varied angles, he lowers the camera from his eye with a grin. “How do you like it, hm?”

“I don’t mind being photographed.” Jihoon frowns. “I’m just more comfortable on the other side of the camera. Besides, I have don’t need any pictures of myself.”

“But you do need pictures of me?” Obviously, Junhui thinks. Obviously I need as many as I can get of you. I need them more than plants need water. Jihoon meanders back across the way with his bag, camera perched carefully in his extended hand. Junhui plucks the device and seals it safely back in its case.

“Of course.”

“I’m sure you have enough by now.”

“Enough?” Junhui huffs, rolling his eyes. “There is no such thing.”

“Ah, whatever.” Junhui shoots a glance his way while they continue toward the rental lot, and the trace of smile he spies on Jihoon’s lips is as faint as they come. His heart feels like melting under the sun’s humid pressure. What a shame, he thinks, that all the most gorgeous things so effectively evade capture.

Their hotel is bigger than any hotel Junhui has ever seen in his life, probably bigger than every hotel he’s ever stayed in put together, gleaming white floors and silver pillars and lobby couches that look too nice to sit on. A huge lake sweeps to the side of the resort, purple waters rippling in the light breeze that fans over the top, and Junhui spies a pool and a tennis court on their way in. The hotel is almost nice enough to be a park on its own, and he almost thinks it’s a shame they have to leave it to go to the real parks. After depositing their belongings in the room, high up on the 11th floor with a window big enough to frame the entire universe, they head back down to take a walk around and get a feel for the weather. A decent length of ambulation finds them at Downtown Disney, and while they stroll through the street below the sun’s steady setting, they decide they may as well stop somewhere there and have dinner.

They settle on some weird bar-type place with big metal structures around the patio of tables, already teeming with people, and Junhui can’t help but feel like they’ve entered a different world, some alternate reality, like anything that happens now is just a long, realistic dream he won’t be able to shake even after he finally wakes up. Jihoon’s hair bridges on bronze under the weakening sun and glowing light post bulbs while they stand waiting on a table, and Junhui watches his hand swim through the air to card through it more than he feels his muscles moving, watches his fingers sift through the curls more than he feels their softness on his skin. Jihoon gives him a quizzical look, but that’s all it is.

“What?” he asks. His voice sounds different than usual, fuller somehow, a lush orchestral arrangement above the buzz of evening insects. Every orange of the sunset displays itself in the lenses of his glasses and the irises behind them. Each hue burns itself into Junhui’s memory individually.

“Nothing.” You’re beautiful, he wants to say, but he’s already said it once today and he knows what look Jihoon will give him if he says it again, so he bites his tongue for now and lets his hand fall out of Jihoon’s hair and to the back of his neck, warm and sticky with cooling sweat. “Happy to be here so far?” Jihoon nods slowly, eyes fixing somewhere in the middle of a picture in the distance that Junhui can’t see.

“It’s weird,” he says. “I kind of feel like I’m dreaming. Everything is so weird.” The laugh that comes out of Junhui’s mouth is dry and sandy, and he can’t stop it from pouring forth once it’s begun. How funny the universe can be sometimes. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking the same thing, is all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Jihoon’s lips quirk in a smile, small and curious.

“Must be destiny,” he says, and Junhui catches his heart rising up to lodge itself in his throat.

“Must be destiny,” he echoes, and a hostess comes to fetch them to their table. Must be.

Long has the sun been set by the time they begin their journey back to the hotel, stomachs full and skin lightly browned. It’s a long trek, and the stars are on full display in the cloudless black expanse above them, dancing by in those shapes Junhui is so used to. Half of him is surprised to be used to them, surprised the same set of stars has followed them to this separate world to decorate the boundless oblivion caging them in. Half of him is comforted by the sight of them, comforted by that glittering constant that never fails to come along, comforted by the sound of Jihoon’s breathing as it reverberates off those distant burning lights and comes back down to the concrete. As they near the hotel, the sound of Magic Kingdom’s nightly fireworks display starts to fall on their ears in resonant pops, leftover colors lingering far off above them.

Junhui thinks of reaching for Jihoon’s hand thirty times before he does it, only daring once they’re climbing upward in the elevator. It feels easier somehow now that they’re so far away from the normal, feels like something he doesn’t need to be scared of, and his cheeks burn like a kid’s when he reaches forward and finds Jihoon’s knuckles with his fingertips. Jihoon’s grip in return is soft, smile small and cheeks a glowing pink, and their hands could barely be called connected, touching lightly in only a few warm places, but Junhui still feels like his spine is splitting into individual vertebrae, neurons lighting up electric all over his body. The smile on Jihoon’s lips is another slice of that other world when he wears it, a subtle curve punctuated by dimples on either side. He follows that smile out of the elevator and into the hall, through the doorway and into bed. He’d follow that smile anywhere it wanted to lead him.

The smell of sunscreen is what wakes Junhui in the morning, a thick wall of scent that scrunches his nose. “Morning,” Jihoon says when he pulls his eyes open, entire upper body already coated in cream. He gives the tube a healthy squeeze and starts working on giving his legs a similar treatment. Junhui heaves himself upright and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

“Why are you covering your _entire_ upper body?” he asks. “Were you not planning on wearing a shirt?”

“Suppose I lose my shirt in a freak rollercoaster accident,” Jihoon spits back like he scripted it, like he knew Junhui would say something, and it brings a wry grin to Junhui’s lips. “I have very fair skin, and I’m not taking any chances.” He keeps his eyes studiously pointed at his legs when he talks, attentive to every spot of skin as he massages the sunblock in.

“That’s a pretty tame rollercoaster accident you’re envisioning,” Junhui tells him, leaning forward onto his palm. “Most people would be scared of sustaining injuries.”

“A sunburn is an injury.” The bottle of sunscreen flies Junhui’s direction without warning, and in a stunning display of reflexes, he fails to catch it before it hits the wall behind him with a thwack. Jihoon smirks. “You better put some on, too.”

“No need,” Junhui sighs, grabbing the bottle. “I don’t burn. I turn gold.”

“Rose gold?” Jihoon snorts. “Just put it on. I don’t wanna be rubbing aloe on your shoulders later.”

“But you will if you have to, right?” Jihoon blows a hard breath out through his nose and turns to face Junhui’s glowing beam.

“Don’t make me have to.”

The destination for the day is Hollywood Studios, far on the other side of the grounds. Early as Junhui feels like they arrive, the park swims with people already, lines to rides filling before their eyes. They watch the wait clocks tick higher and higher for minutes before deciding they may as well hop in the queue for something before the wait gets to be 24 hours, so with frantic footsteps, they make their way into the mass patiently waiting for a turn on the Rock’n’Roller Coaster.

“This ride better be so fun I shit myself,” Jihoon grumbles half an hour later as they slowly inch forward. Junhui thinks he can finally see a glimpse of the beginning of the end of the line, but he’s also thought that three times already and been wrong, so he can’t be certain. He claps a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Cheer up,” he hums, scanning the stretching crowd in front of them. It’s a far cry yet from noon, but sweat is already beading on his skin. “We’re in the happiest place on earth.”

“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” Jihoon gripes, tugging at one of his tank top straps. An energetic bunch of teenage kids in matching shirts sprints by on the other side of the rail dividing the people in the line from the outside world.

“We could go in the single rider line if you’re that impatient,” Junhui suggests, and the look Jihoon shoots him is so quick and so sharp he’s surprised it doesn’t draw any blood.

“And sit next to a stranger?” His words have an amount of bite to them Junhui finds entirely unnecessary. “I think not.”

“Just a suggestion,” he mutters. Jihoon sighs.

“Sorry. The heat makes me crabby.” He shrugs Junhui’s hand off his overheating shoulder and dabs at the sweat collected on his brow. “But I’m not sitting next to a stranger.”

“Your call,” Junhui tells him, and he watches another sweaty group of kids dash by. To think he had been those very kids only half his life ago.

By the time they actually make it to the front of the line, Jihoon is complaining about his ankles and how sore they are, how his feet hurt and he needs a new layer of sunscreen already, and Junhui is wondering why he even wanted to come at all when he seems to be so generally against everything that amusement parks are. There’s a scowl on his face until the very moment they’re harnessed into the car, third row back, when it gets replaced by a giddy grin and eyes brimming with excitement. His hand slaps excitedly at Junhui’s knee while they creep toward takeoff, glowing yellow screen before them a beacon while they wait.

“We’re finally about to go,” Jihoon whispers reverently, and Junhui pats the hand on his knee with acute fondness.

“Sure are.” Junhui clears his throat and throws a few cautious glances around. Nerves? He hasn’t been on a rollercoaster in a long time. “I think this one is supposed to be pretty fast.” Jihoon nods, eyes on the screen.

“Oh yeah, before we go,” he begins, “I’m probably gonna laugh.”

“You’re gonna what?” Without chance for a word more, a blast of Aerosmith jets them off onto the course.

It takes a few seconds for Junhui to hear it, but it certainly falls on his ears before too long. He throws a sideways glance to confirm it, and it’s true: Jihoon is indeed laughing, loud and joyous, as they shoot through corkscrews and around the path’s sharp bends, almost over the top of the music. It’s hard to look away once he’s allowed his vision to rest on Jihoon for long enough, so he doesn’t bother trying, just lets the indoor breeze whip against his face and the enchanting tones of Jihoon’s laughter ring from one side of his skull to the other, back and forth eternally.

There was another boy with Junhui in choir when he was in 11th grade, a tenor in the grade above who was really close with their director through a family friend or something. He had long dark hair that he only ever styled for concerts and a wide smile full of beautifully crooked teeth, and Junhui doesn’t remember his name anymore, but he does remember that he used to have the biggest crush on him and also that he laughed on rollercoasters, too. Junhui still recalls with stunning clarity how he sat right behind him on Space Mountain and his ears didn’t catch a thing but raucous guffaws the entire ride. He watches Jihoon’s laughter subside while the car pulls back into the loading area, and he thinks life has the strangest tendency to go by in circles.

After the initial hell of waiting in that first line, Jihoon laughs a lot. He laughs when they ride the Tower of Terror, when the nervous kid four seats down tugs at the yellow safety strap like his life depends on it. He laughs when they grab something to eat and Junhui spills a disgustingly large glob of ketchup on his chest, when he scrambles for a napkin and ends up spilling more. He laughs when they wait in line for the Toy Story ride because there’s a little kid in the family in front of them who keeps falling asleep standing up, and he laughs when they’ve actually made it onto the ride and Junhui proves himself to be famously bad at the shooting game. The way his face crinkles up with every peal is more than enough to water Junhui through a hundred lifetimes of drought, and even though his feet hurt and he can feel the sun blooming a little too hot on the back of his neck, he thinks this really is the happiest place on earth.

Jihoon groans when Junhui massages aloe into his crisp red shoulders that evening, eyes fixed out the window at the indigo night enveloping them. Each breath brings a subtle rise and fall against Junhui’s slick palms, a rise and fall too rhythmic and even to belong to any human. For the first time in a very long time, he thinks that Jihoon is an angel.

“I feel like my head’s gonna split in two,” he groans, head lolling back onto Junhui’s arms. “My feet are gonna fall off. I can just feel it.” Junhui pats his shoulders and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Sure you’ll be up for another long day tomorrow?” he asks, quiet under the low thrum of the air conditioning.

“Don’t underestimate my spectacular foresight,” Jihoon scoffs, reaching around to pat Junhui on the thigh. “I expected this to happen, so I planned a nice, calm day for tomorrow. Epcot and Animal Kingdom.” Junhui whistles.

“You sure are incredible.”

“Better believe it.” He yawns and heaves himself to his feet, stretching his arms to get a better grip on the air. “Well, I’m gonna go shower before I fall asleep in a shell of my own grime.”

“You should’ve showered _before_ I put that aloe on you.”

“You should have reminded me.” His fingers slide along Junhui’s shoulder while he walks by on his path to the bathroom. “Guess you’ll just have to put more on me later.”

“Only because I love you,” Junhui sings at him, and Jihoon slams himself shut in the bathroom with a tired laugh.

Once they’ve both showered, Junhui reassumes the duty of coating Jihoon’s most severely crisped stretches of skin in soothing green gel. He sits between Junhui’s legs on the bed, facing the TV this time as it plays something Junhui can’t find the energy to attempt paying attention to. The comforter beneath them is cool and plush, pillows the kind of soft that gives way immediately. Junhui leans the back of his head against the headboard and shuts his eyes.

“This hotel sure is nice,” he muses. Jihoon scoffs.

“Better be, with what I’m paying for it.” Junhui gulps around the catch in his throat.

Money. It always comes back to money somehow, always winds up back at this topic, poking that question floating in Junhui’s brain he’d rather not think about. He pulls his eyelids reluctantly back open and stares at the shape of Jihoon’s back before him. Ask, he tells himself. It’ll only bug you more the longer you spend not asking. He knows that good and well, but his tongue is still reluctant to shape the words.

“Hey,” he says, “can I ask you something? A couple things?”

“You saying that out of nowhere makes me really nervous, you know.”

“Sorry.” Jihoon slumps back onto his elbows and rests a hand on Junhui’s shin.

“You can ask whatever it is.” Junhui takes a deep breath in.

“You know how you said you’ve got a lot of money saved up for doing things on your bucket list?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you have saved up, exactly?”

“How invasive.” Before Junhui can retrace his steps, Jihoon is continuing his answer, fingertips dancing a neat little jig atop Junhui’s calf. “I’m not sure exactly, but it should enough for everything I think I want to do before I die. I’ve always been a big saver, so I guess it just added up over the years. I’ve had that savings account since I was in high school.”

“Ah. Can I ask something else, then?”

“If you really want to.”

“Why aren’t you using that money”—words are freezing on his jaw every time he tries to get them out, but it’s impossible to just leave half a question hanging in the air—“to get treatment instead?”

Junhui is holding onto his breath with every fiber of his being when Jihoon turns around to face him, eyes dark and swirling, mazes and exits, riddles and answers. “You want to know that?” he asks, and Junhui isn’t quite sure he does anymore after hearing that question, but his head nods mechanically, an instinct prepared to accept whatever’s thrown his way. No matter what, Junhui begs, do not tell me that you want to die.

“I guess it makes sense for you to ask,” he says. His vision crawls over the ceiling while he gathers his thoughts, and Junhui wishes he would just get on with it before his lungs give out. “Well,” he begins after Junhui’s withered half to death, “treatment just isn’t always a great option.”

“Not always a great option?” Junhui’s brain is having a tough time wrapping itself around the concept. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that,” Jihoon tells him. “When the survival rates are high and the chances of relapsing are low and you have the money and you’re still young, treatment is a good option. And I may still be pretty young, and I may potentially be able to afford it, but why? With how advanced my case already is, my chances of making it even with treatment aren’t spectacular, and there’s a good chance I would relapse and have to go through it all again. And for what? Just so I can feel even sicker for a bit before I kick the bucket?” He shakes his head and clamps a hand on Junhui’s knee. “It’s an opportunity cost. I can either get sicker and spend everything I have trying to live a little longer, or I can do things I’ve always wanted to do and be happy.”

“That’s it?” Junhui combs Jihoon’s face for something more, but there’s nothing. “But you could do all those things later if you got treatment and got healthy again.”

“That’s a big if,” Jihoon says. The smile that crosses his face is sad and pained, and Junhui wishes he could erase it from his eyes just as much as he knows the sight is already etched into them forever. “Look. I know it’s not easy for you to just take it like that, but if I had decided to get treatment, we never would have met each other. I would be miserable and alone right now, and I wouldn’t have gotten a tattoo or seen the northern lights or learned how to dance, and we wouldn’t be here together at Disney. I’m happy with my decision, and I think I’m lucky that I met you.”

Junhui frowns and heaves a lengthy exhale. It’s hard to be upset about it when Jihoon phrases it that way, but it’s impossible not to be. What an unfair thing that even the better of two options is still so unbearably sad. He opens his mouth to speak, but Jihoon cuts him off with a raised hand. Just as well; he isn’t sure what he ought to say.

“Now that we’ve talked about this,” Jihoon whispers, “let’s just focus on having a good time. We have two more days.” He wiggles back and tucks himself under the blanket to Junhui’s side, aims the remote and flicks the television screen off. “And I’m tired.”

“Yeah,” Junhui allows, flipping the switch at the bedside and bathing them in black. In the dark, the pressure of gravity is enough to crush his organs and bones and everything else. He stares through his eyelids at the starless ceiling and waits for sleep to take him or for his body to disintegrate or both. His tongue is restless. “I love you,” it makes him whisper. A hand falls on the center of his chest, drums its fingers gently there before falling flat. Junhui commits the beat to memory.

“Go to sleep.”

“At least say it back.”

“It back.” Junhui sighs. Jihoon snorts. His voice is much too low to hear when he speaks again. “I love you, too. Go to sleep.” The inky darkness takes him in as one of its own without a word more, sinking his brain in the depths of a dream.

Epcot and Animal Kingdom are both very tame places, one a miniature world and one an exaggerated zoo, and they provide an excellent chance for recuperation from sunburns and aching feet. They catch Mulan in China and manage to sneak into the line to meet her just as it’s closing, and they ride a lot of things that seem to be fully staffed by automatons that Jihoon says creep him out. After a ninety minute wait for a flight simulation ride, he almost falls asleep and misses the fake views, and he fully dozes while they eat lunch in Japan before heading over to Animal Kingdom. There are a few rides there thrilling enough to wake him back up, but between gazing at the animals and waiting in line, he spends more time leaning against Junhui’s shoulder for support than trusting his own two legs to keep him upright. When they’ve finally found their way back to the hotel, he almost falls asleep in the shower.

Day three is the biggest and most important: Magic Kingdom. Magic Kingdom may be the gathering site of most families with young children, but it is also the park with the most famed rides and characters and also the longest lines. After a deep night’s sleep, Jihoon is raring to go in the morning, marching them proudly to the monorail adjacent to the hotel. He chats Junhui’s ear off on the way about how feverishly excited he is to finally experience the legendary Space Mountain and the legendary Splash Mountain and whatever other legendary mountains there are. His enthusiasm wanes in the middle of Space Mountain’s ungodly line.

“God, my feet,” he whines, dropping to a squat to massage his ankles. “I’m never gonna be able to stand after this. Why are all the lines so long?”

“Do you want to take a break and go sit down somewhere?” Jihoon fixes him with a funny look.

“We can’t just leave the line.”

“We can if you need to.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He stretches and rises to his feet again, mouth in a determined line. “We are riding this.”

He laughs through the entire ride and curses his feet the second they’ve climbed back off it, and Junhui offers they sit down somewhere again, and Jihoon says no again and guides them into another lengthy queue. The cycle repeats itself after each ride, a turning wheel of stubborn frowns and lowered brows between lamentations of the soreness under his heels. A heavy sigh pushes through his lips when they finally take a seat to eat lunch, eyes falling shut at the depth of relief. He watches a kid wearing a Mickey Mouse ear hat waddle by behind a pair of parents while he chews on his chicken strip.

“I’ve always wanted one of those,” he muses, following with his eyes until the kid is out of sight. Junhui sends a frantic glance back to see what he’s talking about.

“Want me to go get you one?”

“We can go get one after we eat, before we dive into another line.”

“I can go get it now. So you don’t have to walk.” He’s on his feet in a flash. “I’ll be right back,” he says, but Jihoon’s hand is a cold vise around his wrist before he can make his getaway.

“I know you don’t mean it like that,” he says, eyes hard, “but please stop treating me like a child.”

“But I’m—”

“You are.” Jihoon tugs him back down into the seat. “I get that you’re being considerate, but I’m an adult. I’m complaining, but I can still walk. I don’t want this to turn into you doing everything because I can’t do anything. I know your feet hurt, too.” Junhui frowns. “We can go after we eat.”

“Sorry.” Jihoon sighs.

“Don’t apologize when I know it’s just because you’re too nice.” He pats the back of Junhui’s hands a few lethargic times, an uneven pattern of seven. “Just, for my sake, pretend I’m a perfectly healthy adult and don’t pay attention to my griping.”

“If you say so,” Junhui says, then, “Quit whining about your feet.” Jihoon’s laugh is airy and empty and an indescribable relief to Junhui’s ears.

“That’s more like it.”

The shortest line they meet all day is that for It’s A Small World, marked at 5 minutes but more accurately experienced at zero. Junhui’s sure it’s probably because a lot of kids—and even some adults—think the ride is creepy and therefore avoid it like the escaped soul of Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen body. Junhui thinks it’s cute, especially where the song changes into Spanish, and Jihoon can’t stop laughing at the family in front of them on the boat, an overzealous dad who keeps turning around and nodding at his completely unenthused kids who refuse to even pretend to enjoy the ride for his sake. When they step back outside, pink streaks are drawing themselves across the sky, an early sign of the oncoming sunset, and they decide to buy some overpriced ice creams while they wait for the nightly fireworks to commence.

People are packed together more tightly than most sardines would understand on the stone paving in front of Cinderella’s castle, necks craned to fix their eyes on the drowning infinity of the sapphire sky yawning far above them. One of Jihoon’s plastic ears digs into Junhui’s shoulder while they watch the sky’s hue drip closer to black with each passing minute, but he decides he doesn’t mind it enough to say anything, just keeps eating his slowly melting cone of ice cream and watching the lazy sky with patient eyes. He’s not sure how much later it is when he hears the opening notes, but he’s sure he can hear the smile on Jihoon’s faces when he fiercely whispers, “It’s starting,” and nudges him in the side.

Fireworks are something of a double-edged sword for Junhui. He always hated them as a kid, hated how loud and violent they sound and how they paint the air gray with smoke, how his grandparents’ dog always barked so loudly whenever they were set off. Slowly and slowly, he grew to be more neutral about them, grew to appreciate the beautiful lights they give more than he hates the smoke those lights leave behind. Standing under them right now, with music filling his chest and Jihoon pressed against his side, he believes he may have finally started to like them.

In a way, they remind him of stars, shifting and moving faster than normal stars, colored more vibrantly. Each explosion is a newly born constellation and each leftover gray shadow the lingering aftermath of a clustered family of supernovas, washing away all traces of the real stars far behind, racing them through a galaxy all its own as they stand still with aching soles on the unforgiving concrete. These are the stars of this new world, he thinks, and this indeed a universe entirely separate from that which they call home. They stand in the midst of the eternal night with thousands of other park patrons oblivious to the stinging behind Junhui’s lungs, eyes cast skyward to discover what these local stars will create next. They stand and watch, and Junhui feels that his heart is on a heavenward journey, shooting clean past the moon to mingle with the cosmos beyond. They stand and wait, and Junhui is no longer aware of anything but the adjacent heart beating in tandem with his and the dazzling new sky filled with stars from worlds that are not theirs.

“They’re beautiful,” Jihoon says, hushed voice wrought with awe. Junhui turns his gaze from the fireworks above to find their tiny mirrors in Jihoon’s eyes, bright and colorful and just as beautiful, if not more. He’d been thinking something quite like that just moments ago, had it on the very tip of his tongue. A thought so similar yet so different, beneath these kaleidoscope stars. He parts his lips and watches the distant lights in Jihoon’s eyes fade to black.

“Will you marry me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helllllooooooooooooooo we are coming at you live with an update that is NOT at asscrack midnight! revolutionary  
> i hope you all enjoyed this chapter! with only 3 chapters left, things are starting to wind down, and all i can hope is that you'll stick with me through the next few to see the very final picture and also that nobody wants to burn me at the stake by the time we're through. this chapter took a while again because i have been falling into slump after slump after slump and forcing myself to write my way back out of them, but it's not always easy. i'll do my best to hurry with the next update, but there's only one more week of classes and then FINALS, so i can't really make any lofty guarantees right now. but then it's summer... and i will do my best  
> once again, i do hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! thanks again to anyone and everyone who has read thus far or is hopping in now! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and i'll hopefully see you again next time!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a boat.

All around them, park attendees stir, shuffling in large masses back toward the monorail and the parking lot and the exit, but the two of them remain motionless. Far above them, the sky fades to black, dyed still with the enduring gray stripes of smoke from the final firework. The twinkling stars beyond are blocked from view by that static veil of slate, not that Junhui is paying any attention to them. Jihoon has turned to look at him, and he’s far too busy burying himself in those eyes.

Stupid. That’s what he gets from the bewildered line of Jihoon’s mouth, the drowning infinity of confusion in his pupils. That was a stupid question, and he shouldn’t have asked it. Of course he shouldn’t have. Jihoon’s face is carved from stone, perfectly unmoving, and Junhui should not have said that, should be scrambling for a way to step back and dust it off, to play it off as a joke, but he won’t. His mind is too calm to scramble, mouth too sore to chalk up a halfhearted lie. Even if he knows he shouldn’t have asked, he doesn’t want to take it back.

It feels good sometimes to release questions, Junhui thinks, to set them free from the prison in your skull and give them some room to breathe in the outside world, and he feels good about releasing this question even if Jihoon’s gaze is suffocating him where he stands, even if the world around them is heading home and they are trapped in a vacuum without answers. He wanted to ask, and he wants to hear something in response. Even in the face of emptiness crashing on every side, he feels like this wrong question was the most right one he could’ve asked, now the most right time he could have asked it. His heart has ceased beating, but he won’t rescind.

“What?” Jihoon asks after years have passed, foot traffic beside them slowed to an achingly miniscule fraction of what it should be. It isn’t that he didn’t hear, and Junhui knows it. This is an out. This is a chance to be smarter than he has been, to say something Jihoon would rather hear. This is an opportunity to pretend his head is not lost somewhere amidst clouds rampant with untouchable dreams. Junhui is nothing if not a very committed fool.

“Will you marry me?” he repeats, and he watches Jihoon deflate, watches the color drain from his cheeks and hears a sigh rend itself from his lips. No simpler can an answer be.

“Let’s head back,” Jihoon suggests, barely more than a whisper, and Junhui follows him to the monorail with quiet footsteps and an unsteady heartbeat. He wonders while he walks, wonders if that means “we shouldn’t talk about this here” or “we shouldn’t talk about this ever.” He wonders if the gravity of this mistake is something his bones are strong enough to handle.

Jihoon doesn’t say another word for a long time, bathes the universe in silence with his sealed lips and leads Junhui ever forward without looking back to make sure he’s still following, maybe without even blinking at all. His hand swings by his side so terrifyingly far away, and Junhui thinks he’ll crumble to dust if he even dares to reach for it. A chill is crawling over his skin even in the thick humid air surrounding them, and Junhui can feel through his idle fingertips that his hands right now lack every drop of the grace they need to handle Jihoon’s. They make it through the doors of the monorail just before they close, squeezing into a car already overfilled with people. Jihoon fixes his gaze firmly out the window, into the murky night blanketing them, and Junhui uses his unpracticed hands to hold himself together.

It’s not until they arrive back at the hotel room that whatever’s swimming in Junhui’s ears drains enough for him to hear again, but even for a while more, Jihoon doesn’t speak. Staring at the ceiling, he seats himself gingerly on the edge of the bed, and Junhui waits. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting on or when it’s coming, but he waits nonetheless, eyes unmoving from Jihoon until he’s got it figured out. One thousand crystalline lifetimes later, he sees Jihoon finally turn to look at him, sees a line wet and shiny dancing along his bottom eyelids, sees a beautiful hand pat the space beside him, and his legs move him forward even when he doubts their ability to carry him.

“Junhui.” Jihoon’s palm falls to his knee, frozen and scalding, and Junhui doesn’t want to hear where these words are heading when the voice shaping them sounds so unfairly sad. He covers Jihoon’s hand with his own, but it doesn’t get any warmer. “You know we can’t get married.”

I know, Junhui’s brain agrees, but his mouth doesn’t concur. “Why not?” He doesn’t want his voice to crack, either, but it betrays him, betrays him just as it had when he was in high school, just as his entire body had for years. Even twice his life later, he still can’t catch a break. The universe loves its jokes. Jihoon sighs, and his breath carries with it the winds of earth’s every corner, violent and gentle, tired eternal.

“We just can’t.” Junhui is afraid to look into his eyes, to look into them and see how very weary he is, to look into them and see they’re not sparkling like they should be. “It’s already unfair enough to you as it is, and I really don’t want it to be worse.”

“Unfair? But I don’t—”

“I know you don’t see it that way,” Jihoon says, massaging his knee with a rhythm that keeps him on solid ground, “but that doesn’t mean it’s fair. Don’t say that it is when I know that it’s not.”

“But why?” Junhui whines. “Why is it unfair to be happy?” Jihoon looks at him like he just doesn’t get it and probably never could, and maybe Junhui doesn’t, but does he really want to understand how the bubbling tightness in his chest when he feels Jihoon’s heart beating through his wrist is a bad thing? Does he truly want to know where the bounds of fairness have been so cruelly drawn that he can do nothing but gaze upon them in longing for what may never be?

“It’s not about being happy,” Jihoon croaks, “and you know that. I know you know that.”

“Why can’t it be about that?” Junhui wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. He knows it could never be so simple because life is not so simple. The universe is not such a simple thing as he always wishes it were. He chokes back his childish questions and says instead, “I know.”

Beside him, Jihoon reclines onto his back, hand still resting over Junhui’s leg, and stares up at the ceiling like there’s something painted on it to look at. Junhui trusts Jihoon’s eyes more than he trusts his own, so he lies down, too, lies down to count the popcorn sprayed above him like cheap imitations of stars.

“You know what you told me about your grandma?” Jihoon asks after an eternity of tracing the invisible artwork above with his eyes, voice quiet and threatening to shake.

“My grandma?”

“Do you resent her?” Junhui lowers his brows at the question, a frustrated dip that crinkles his forehead.

“I loved her,” he says. “She was an amazing person.”

“But do you resent her?”

“Why would I?”

“She’s the reason you couldn’t finish college.” Junhui can feel his chest moving, but he can’t tell whether his lungs are filling with breath or sucking in empty space. “You had to drop out because she died.” But it wasn’t her fault that she died, Junhui thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Even without words, he can hear Jihoon telling him that doesn’t mean she died any less. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be a reason you can’t do the things you want to do.”

Even if he were able to come up with the right words to say right now, there’s a lump like a brick in his throat that’s not letting him speak, so he just stares at the ceiling until he thinks he can feel his heart stilling in its cavity. Resent his grandmother? Is he supposed to hate her for something she didn’t intend to do? He knows Jihoon didn’t mean it like that, but it doesn’t feel good to think about either way. Is he bitter about it, about having to drop out of school? Has he been bitter for all these years without realizing it? Junhui doesn’t know. He wants to slip through a membrane, slip into another reality where things are different and leave this one far behind him.

“Sorry,” Junhui says eventually, when the cement in his neck has finally been reduced to gravel.

“Don’t apologize,” Jihoon tells him.

“I didn’t mean to make this a bad trip.”

“Cut it out.” Jihoon smacks his leg. “It was a great trip. This is the happiest place on earth. I’m glad we came.”

“If you say so.” Another smack.

“I say so. Don’t fall back into saying that. Just believe me when I tell you things.” Junhui’s brain is fuzzy in search of the sound of Jihoon’s voice that used to get onto him for saying that so much, sifting through sands for a relic so long buried. What an unfamiliar voice it had been back then. How many leagues different from the sound of the world turning it has now become.

“Alright,” Junhui concedes, and Jihoon groans and sits back up.

“Come on,” he says. “I don’t want this to be the mood for our last few hours of this trip. Let’s go get in the hot tub or something.”

“There’s a hot tub?”

“Have you seen this place? Of course there’s a hot tub.”

As it turns out, the hot tub is overrun with parents weary of the antics of their rambunctious children by the time they make it down, so they’re forced instead to sink into the end of the pool that isn’t cramped with said children. The water is cool, rippled at this end only by the distant and muted waves radiating from the livelier side, and Junhui sinks down until it’s covering his neck, knees bent into a halfhearted squat to get him low enough. His chest is still heavy, urging him to dip deeper still, but he maintains his altitude, watching as Jihoon climbs into the water beside him. The line of the water dances above his shoulders, occasionally flicks closer to his chin. It’s not often he gets to see Jihoon from this angle, and something about it has a smile tugging at his lips despite his leaden ribs.

“Something funny?” Jihoon asks, flicking his eyes down and sideways. The way Junhui is standing, Jihoon has about an inch or two on him. Moonlight reflects off his cheeks, and he looks like a miracle, a completely different being and entirely the same.

“You’re just so tall,” he gushes, and immediately feels a kick at his ankle. Water muffles the soft laughter sifting out between his teeth.

“Cut it out,” Jihoon barks, very subtle smile shining on his face, as Junhui continues to laugh down into the pool. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m so funny,” Junhui argues. “I make you laugh all the time.”

“That says more about me than it does about you.”

“How scathing.” He flicks a drop of water at Jihoon’s cheek. “And all because I wanted to comment on how tall and handsome you are.” Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“It is kind of nice, though,” he admits after a while, “to be able to look straight at you. It feels like we’re closer.”

“We kind of are.” Jihoon huffs. “I like it too, you know. It’s nice to be at the same level.”

“You should have been shorter, then.”

“Or you should have been taller.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and leans back against the ridge of the pool’s boundary, shoulders bumping the slight overhand where cement gives way to dip into a basin. The way the tiny waves lap at his chest is mesmerizing, enough to make Junhui forget the weight in his core, a steady tempo washing in uneven time as breaths heave in and out beneath it.

“Hey,” Jihoon juts in without warning, chin tilted to the sky, “it’s been a while since we did this.” He raises one hand from the water to point at the black sea above them, swirling with foamy stars Junhui’s eyes can hardly find. “Can you see any constellations up there?” Junhui squints.

“Not really,” he says after a short and fruitless search. “There’s too much light pollution for me to see more than just a few scattered stars at a time.”

“Damn.” The regret in his voice sounds genuine, and it spurs Junhui to keep up his search. “I want to go on a cruise next time. Maybe we can see some out in the middle of the ocean.”

“Maybe we can. I’ve never been on a cruise.” Something at the edge of his vision lines up just right, just for a second, and Junhui’s arm flings out of the water with so much zeal that he almost elbows Jihoon in the nose. “There! There’s Gemini!”

“Where?”

“Over there.” He clamps his hands over Jihoon’s ears and turns his head until he thinks his eyes should be lined up. “Do you see it?”

“No,” Jihoon grumbles, shoulders slumping. “I can never see any of them. I don’t know how you do it without the lines to show you where they’re supposed to be connected.”

“I guess you just get the hang of it,” he muses, releasing his hold on Jihoon’s head. “Maybe sometime you’ll start to see them.”

“Maybe.”

He turns back around to face Junhui, away from the sky and down again to earth, and it tears Junhui’s bones apart that he must be so beautiful and the world so disgustingly unfair. Here he stands, a beam of moonlight stretching to earth, everything Junhui wants forever, rippling at the edges every time he risks a touch. What could he possibly hold Junhui back from doing in the future that he would have been able to do in the first place? Moving water tickles the bottoms of Junhui’s earlobes.

“Do you mind if I kiss you right now?” he asks.

“There’s a bunch of families over there,” Jihoon tells him, which is not at all an answer. Junhui inches closer, closer, until their noses are almost touching.

“Do you care if people see us?” he asks.

“Do _you_ care if they see us?” Jihoon shoots back. His eyes glitter, deep and enigmatic.

“I don’t care if Walt Disney himself comes back from the dead and sees us.”

“Well,” Jihoon says, thin smile stretching his face. “I guess you have your answer.”

Beneath the flavor of pool is something that coils itself around Junhui’s lungs and tugs at them unrelenting, the most bitter kind of sweetness there is, absent from the planet’s every palate save for this precise moment, this sliver of time when Junhui tastes it on his. Jihoon’s hand creeps in a slow arc, glides through the water and slips up his back, past his shoulder blades to curl around the back of his neck and thumb behind his ear, bring him a fraction of a fraction closer. His hands are cool, cooler than the water around them, and Junhui knew they would be, but something about it still makes him feel like crying. He knows he can’t cry, and he knows he won’t, but while the moonlight glitters over tiny ripples in the navy pool and the children thirty feet away babble excitedly over their favorite rides and Jihoon’s lips press against his with a pressure stretched across the gap between too much and not enough, all he wants to do is cry.

That feeling stays with him even when he’d rather die than have it stick around, a lingering layer of mucus sitting heavy around all his organs and gifting him the distinct sensation of drowning on dry land. He can’t get Jihoon’s words out of his head, can’t rid himself of those questions, not even with all the surplus thoughts and counted ceiling stars the universe has to offer him. It follows him back home, back to the sprawl under a more familiar blanket of stars and the regular come and go of an everyday routine. It follows him to the office, ponderous on his shoulders under Jeonghan’s hawkish gaze.

“You look tan,” he says as Junhui settles into his chair on the first day back, careful eyes raking for something else to latch onto, but Junhui doesn’t give him much. “How was Disney?”

“It was good,” Junhui tells him, and just as much as he knows it to be the truth, his mouth doesn’t give it the right spin to make it seem that way. Jeonghan’s ears twitch, curious, and he situates himself a little more comfortably on Junhui’s desk.

“Why do you sound so sad?” he asks. He sounds far too genuine for Junhui’s tastes, and he feels it in the soft lining right around his heart, splintering in a million directions, cold and stinging. With a weary glance into eyes glittering with understated worry, Junhui decides he may as well tell the truth.

“I asked Jihoon to marry me,” he confesses. Jeonghan’s mouth swells toward a smile, on the very verge of being overjoyed, but he quickly remembers the original inquiry was about sadness rather than happiness and deflates just as quickly. The corners of his mouth dip down in an unbearable frown, eyebrows lowered in a line akin to both confusion and sorrow.

“He said no?” Bewilderment drips from his voice, splashes heavily on the desk and runs off to soak through Junhui’s shoes. His socks stain a somber red. “Why?” Junhui shrugs before he says anything. Even if he has the answer, that doesn’t mean he understands it.

“He said he doesn’t want to stop me from being able to do things I want to do.” His mouse finds an icon on the screen and clicks, but he doesn’t see what fills the space once it’s been opened. Everything goes in through his pupils and drips straight down through the grate below his brain.

“Like what things?”

“I don’t know,” Junhui tells him. The brightness of the screen sears his retinas, but he can’t bring himself to turn it down. “Do you remember why I had to drop out of college?”

“Did you ever tell me?”

“Didn’t I?” Jeonghan shakes his head when Junhui looks at him, and it dawns on him that maybe he only thought about telling him. Ah. It’s coming back to him now. He’d wanted to tell him, but Jeonghan had been too busy to get ahold of, and after long enough, Junhui felt like it didn’t exactly matter anymore, that he was out of school and at a gas station and that was just the way of things. Jeonghan never asked. Does that mean Jihoon’s the only non-family member who knows? Something about that dawning realization prods Junhui right where it hurts. “Well, it was my grandma. She died with a lot of unsettled debts, and I couldn’t afford to go to school anymore.”

“Oh.” He looks like he wants to apologize, to console, but his lips stay still. What, after all, is the point of consolation when you’ve missed the date by so much already?

“Yeah.” Slowly, the notion that he won’t be getting any work done with such unfocused eyes sinks in, and he turns to face Jeonghan head-on. “He asked me if I resent her.”

“Do you?”

“Why are you asking me, too?” Junhui asks in exasperation, combing a hand through his hair. “Am I supposed to?”

“It’s not that I think you should,” Jeonghan muses, “but you might. It’s a fair question.” Junhui responds with a look that is itself a question, one he feels is just as fair as any, and Jeonghan taps his fingers on the desktop in a way that is all too like Jihoon and simultaneously far too different. “I mean, if you really wanted to finish school and her death was why you couldn’t, you might blame her for it.”

“I don’t,” Junhui asserts, bristling a little. He feels too much like he’s being accused even when he knows that’s not what Jeonghan means, not what Jihoon meant. His brows lower in indignation. “I was never that big into school, and I’ve always loved my grandma. It’s not her fault she died.”

“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean Jihoon knows how you feel about it.” He heaves himself from the desk and rests a hand on Junhui’s shoulder. “Maybe he thinks finishing school was something you really wanted to do.” A squeeze, light but firm. “Maybe he thinks you just don’t want to admit you blame her that you couldn’t. You can’t blame him for conclusions he draws without things you haven’t told him.” Junhui sighs.

“Why are you so level-headed these days?” he asks around a groan, and Jeonghan laughs in that tired way he does, patting the shoulder beneath his palm a few times.

“I’m a father now, remember?” he drawls. “Parenthood changes you.” He offers Junhui a thin smile before turning to go march back to his office. “You should sit down and talk with him,” he calls over his shoulder as he retreats, and Junhui scoffs. Some expert advice that is. Not like he could have thought of it on his own.

The truth is that Junhui does want to sit down and talk with him about it, is absolutely dying to do so, but as much as he’s grown out of his awkward teen shell, there are still a few old habits sticking around that he’s not quite gotten rid of yet, bad little habits like being scared stiff to bring up anything he knows it would greatly behoove him to bring up and therefore squashing it down and out of his thoughts with as much brute force as possible. He hates that he does it, hates even more that he knows he does it yet can’t seem to stop himself, and he additionally hates the way air gets stuck like cotton in his throat when he has finally found it in himself to dredge up enough courage to think about asking. It’s so hard to look into Jihoon’s eyes and start talking about something Junhui knows he’d really rather not talk about.

As the days crawl on and the thermometer’s mercurial fill climbs ever higher, a date is selected for the cruise Jihoon mentioned in Florida, a full 7 days in June, starting on Sunday the 6th and bringing them back ashore the following Sunday. Junhui’s still got a sharp bundle of thorns nagging at the back of his mind, but as the departure date creeps up, he focuses more on the giddiness at his first ever cruise, the debate over whether he should stock up on Dramamine and if so just how much of it he ought to buy. He can tell by Jeonghan’s sad looks that he wishes Junhui would devote his mental energy to issues a tad more pressing, and the deepest parts of Junhui wish he would, too, but he stifles them both, smacks his thoughts back down with clammy hands and turns to face the other direction. Someday, he promises himself each time. Someday soon, when the words don’t snag on his throat and the fear doesn’t chill his bones, he will definitely talk about it. Just not yet.

They depart from New Orleans, a loud city Junhui’s always wanted to visit and really take in a long drink of, and it’s clear so much closer to the equator how very near they are to summer. Waves of heat drift up off the concrete paths they walk, off the asphalt in the parking lot, off the cars and the plants and the people and everything. Jihoon’s jaw drops to the concrete when he gets an eyeful of the boat looming in the water before them, big and white and shining.

“It’s fucking huge,” Jihoon observes wisely, eyes wide with awe. “How can it be that big? It’s huge. Holy shit.”

“It is pretty big,” Junhui whistles, eyeing it up from behind his sunglasses. Even with the shield of darkness, the white of the exterior is a little too blinding. “It looks like you could fit a whole little city in there. I wonder if we’ll even be able to see all of it.”

“Jesus,” is Jihoon’s only response as they shuffle ever forward, bags in tow. Around them, fellow passengers come forth in droves, like unorganized ants in the distance crawling toward their shiny new hill, and the two of them continue as well, burning feet heavy on the pavement with every step further.

It doesn’t sink into Junhui’s mind until they’ve already boarded that they are going to be on the boat for two entire days without a chance to set foot on dry land again, and he regrets not taking the time to give the blazing asphalt a goodbye kiss before stepping onto the vaguely undulating faux ground waiting for him. Part of him wants to bury himself on the bed and not move until they hit Mahogany Bay, but it’s a waste of all the money they spent on this trip to spend half of it immobilized by fear of motion sickness. From the look on Jihoon’s face when they reach their room to deposit their luggage, Junhui thinks he may be thinking something along a similar strain.

“I don’t know if I thought this through very well,” he admits, sitting pensive upon the edge of the bed. Light sliding in through the window falls nicely on his back, dyes his silhouette in sunshine. It almost seems to filter right through the back of his head, come shining through his eyes, tired though they are. Junhui’s ribs are too tight.

“Is it just hitting you too that we’re stuck on this boat and we won’t see land for two days?” Jihoon’s chin dips in a solemn nod.

“Glad it’s not just me.”

“It’s never just you.”

Junhui doesn’t know why he says it, something so unusual. He’s not even sure what he means by it, but he knows he means something, and he wants to find the answer to an unasked question on Jihoon’s face when he looks up even if he doesn’t know what the question was, nestled in the creases around his mouth or dripping from each eyelash. He finds in the stead of an answer very little, blank lips and cheeks and eyelids, blank curls of hair in front of a blank forehead. Jihoon heaves himself from the mattress with both hands and fixes Junhui with a look that is both nothing and an innumerable multitude of things.

“I guess it’s not,” he agrees, and Junhui would kill to know what exactly he’s agreeing with. “Why don’t we go have a look around for a bit?” As Junhui has grown to accept, he is powerless to do anything but nod his head and follow blindly, watch Jihoon’s hands swinging at his sides and wish he were brave enough to reach for them. How confusing and fickle is the nature of courage.

As suspected, the ship is unbelievable and enormous, has more amenities than they could ever hope to touch. In the center of the deck is a pool (“Isn’t it enough already that we’re completely surrounded by water?” Jihoon asks with an exasperated sweep of the arm), already crawling with eager swimmers though they’ve barely left port. Children bounce around in the shallower depths and on the dry borders, under watery sprays mounted on poles, and watching them gives Junhui the strangest desire to join in, to go back in time twenty years and be that young again. Above them, the sky is a brilliant blue, cloudless and infinite, and it relieves his nerves somehow. Two days is not very much time, he reminds himself. The trip will be over before he blinks if he all he does is stick his head in the sand and wait to set foot on earth again. He can do two days.

“You sure look excited all of a sudden,” Jihoon tells him as they meander down the path. His elbow finds Junhui’s side and nudges gently when his first response is to raise his eyebrows. Their sandaled feet scrape over planked deck in an unintentional rhythm Junhui can’t help but notice.

“Do I?” is all he asks, and Jihoon nudges him again, mouth curving into a smile, small and subdued. He looks so unbelievably gorgeous under the sun, Junhui thinks. He reminds himself Jihoon looks gorgeous no matter where he is.

“Don’t tell me you have suddenly developed the urge to go play around under those fountains.” Junhui chews at his lip, avoids eye contact. “Junhui, oh my god.”

“What?” he cries, tipping his head at the little crowd. “They look like they’re having fun. I want to have fun.”

“Are you ten?” he snorts. “There are other ways to have fun.”

“But I feel so young right now. I haven’t felt this young in,” he wiggles his fingers, “twenty years.” Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“Maybe you feel young,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean you are.” A child wobbles past them, no older than eight, and Jihoon fails to keep down a warm grin. Junhui thinks about the versions of Jihoon he’s never met, countless iterations in alternate timelines, wonders if those Jihoons look at kids with the same fond eyes this one does, if they get to have children of their own. What he wouldn’t give to see what that’s like. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want my kid splashing around on the deck with some strange forty-year-old.” Instinct brings Junhui’s hand over his heart to defend against the blow.

“I am not _forty_ ,” he squawks. “I’m a very fresh thirty-three. _Very_ fresh.”

“You’re turning thirty-four on Thursday, you know,” Jihoon tells him, and Junhui stops dead in his tracks. No, he isn’t. Right? He couldn’t be. But he counts the days, and they all fall into the right places. Why is Jihoon keeping better track of his birthday than he is? And why has the bigger portion of a year felt like no more than the careless blink of a single minute on the electric green numerals of the world’s every bedside clock? Junhui stares at Jihoon like he’s lost, and Jihoon stares back like he isn’t sure where to find him. Eventually, words reach him again, tugging unsurely out of his throat.

“Well,” he starts, slow, “that may be the case, but 34 is still closer to thirty than forty, so mathematically, I’m basically still thirty.” Jihoon barks out one laugh, loud and gravelly. An old man reclined in a beach chair shoots him a look.

“Mathematically, you’re still too old to hang out with a bunch of kids whose parents you don’t know.” Junhui sighs.

“I guess.” Jihoon pats him on the back, hand unusually warm through the thin fabric of his tank top, and Junhui thinks he feels a heartbeat through those fingertips, light but undeniable. It flowers in his chest around the dark stains of words he’s not bold enough to say.

“Let’s just have a look around for now.”

To his amazement, Junhui had been right on the money in saying it seemed like a little city could fit on the boards of the ship. A long tour leads them around the more inner chambers, out of the sun’s blazing reach, and they find there shops and restaurants and arcades and bars and countless other things neither of them ever suspected could be uprooted and floated across the sea. Jihoon roams in a constant state of dropped jaw and wide eyes, and Junhui roams beside him in constant awe of how absolutely entrancing another human being can be.

One of the restaurants they pass lures them in with its delicious scents, and they figure they may as well stop in and eat dinner, stomachs grumbling in the wake of the light lunch they’d had on arrival in New Orleans hours ago. The host seats them adjacent to a window, rolling waves of blue outside catching Junhui’s periphery no matter how much he tries to focus on other things. He likes the sea, has since he was a kid, but there’s a definite difference between viewing it from the shore and cruising overtop with no land around to catch your fall. He’s torn between admiring the beauty of the soft waters and feeling sick to his stomach at the hopeless infinitude of each wave that crashes against the hull, endless cycles of the same fruitless task in one unshifting tone of dark blue, unending toil consistent across every universe he can call to mind. In many ways, he sees shreds of himself in those waves, and it churns his gut the very same way it churns the waters carrying them. He does his best to focus on Jihoon, smiling at him from across the table with eyes that are questions.

Jihoon looks every bit the same now as he did when Junhui first met him, clothes the only noteworthy difference, or maybe he looks completely different in every facet contrivable, an entirely new person, alike in general shape alone to the first man Junhui met so many months ago. In the reflection of his glass, Junhui tries to discern whether he looks the same, too, or different, too, but the image is too unclear and his memory too foggy. The understated swaying beneath his feet is doing funny things to his brain, meanwhile Jihoon does nothing but gaze at him, glow from the light hanging above them and the creeping sun outside painting the lines of his face in shimmering bronze. Flawless lines, perfect. Exactly as perfect as Junhui first recalls seeing them.

Words in Junhui’s ears drift through like plankton in the swirling depths below them, filtered through hazy shades of murky teal, connecting to their meanings only in the very last seconds. Even when he orders, he feels his jaw moving more than he hears himself speaking, more than he knows what he orders. It’s only once the server has placed plates on the table before them that the liquid filling his skull finally drains. Two identical plates. Chicken tacos.

His ears wait patiently for Jihoon to say something, something like _déjà vu_ or _isn’t that funny_ or anything at all, but they wait in vain. All Jihoon does is cast his eyes down and breathe a few soundless chuckles into the air for god and nobody to hear, lift his fork and dig into the rice at the side of the plate. Lacking other options, Junhui follows suit, an imperfect mirror several beats too late.

“Does it weird you out how we’re kind of trapped?” It’s not until both plates have been cleared and they wait on a slice of chocolate cake to split that Jihoon says it, eyes out the window. He turns them to Junhui, and they reflect back to him the distant horizon, the eternally shifting hues of the sky. The way he’s looking at him fills Junhui’s chest in some way, prompts him to smile.

“You’re really beautiful, you know,” Junhui reminds him, and Jihoon morphs his face into an unconvincing frown.

“Don’t avoid the question,” and Junhui’s stomach feels normal enough for him to laugh, just once.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “It kind of freaks me out that there’s nowhere to go.” Jihoon nods, measured and slow, four times, directly aligned with the beats of Junhui’s heart.

“We’re like rats trapped in a maze,” he speculates, scooting his fork side to side over the tabletop in hypnotic meter. “A floating maze.”

“There are worse mazes to be trapped in,” Junhui supposes, and Jihoon nods again, smiles again, laughs again. He is a ceaseless tessellation of himself, and Junhui could watch him forever. Junhui wishes he had that sort of forever at his leisure.

“You’re right there,” he admits, and then the waiter drops by with their chocolate cake. Junhui can’t tell any longer whether he’s got the appetite for it, but he lifts his spoon in time with Jihoon’s anyway.

After dinner, they mosey their way to the upper ridge decks, a little clearer of people than those lower levels with the pools and slides and busy attractions, and they slink to a spot at the ship’s rear to watch the sun set over the water, numbingly slow in its downward descent. It floods the sky first with gold as it sinks, fading gradually into orange and then to a smoldering red before at last hitting the waterline and sinking out of view for the evening, washing the colors away around them until all has been painted dark gray.

Compared to sunrises, Junhui thinks sunsets are not nearly as beautiful, not nearly as special. After finally seeing a sunrise himself, he knows it to be true, but the inferiority of a sunset does not stop it from coming. Junhui knows this just as well. He can wake up in time to watch every sunrise for all of time, watch as their rainbow hues dye the atmosphere more wonderfully than a sunset could ever hope to, but he can’t stop the sunset from coming any more than he can stop the ocean’s waves from eventually breaking against the shore. The most he can control is the way he’ll look at the sunset, whether he’ll watch it head-on with a hand in his or turn his eyes away and pretend he can’t see it, ignore it until he thinks the sun is rising once more. He knows which he would prefer.

“Let’s head back down,” Jihoon says, and they are inconsequential words at heart and at surface, but Junhui finds great consequence in them as he follows Jihoon’s lead back down the stairs. He finds all the latent bravery he’s been needing to get a grip on those threads of thoughts he’s been shoving into his dustiest corners, the questions he needs to ask, words he needs to say. They formulate on his tongue, but he clips them before they can free themselves. They aren’t ready yet. He’s not ready yet.

Jeonghan would be proud of him in this moment, if only in a very limited capacity. He’s going to take that useless, redundant advice and do something with it, even if he’s waited far longer than Jeonghan would have liked him to, seen far too many sunsets come and go. He’ll do it before he watches too many more sunsets drip by, before he’s touched once more on dry land for good. He’ll do it while there are still sunsets left to see, still sunrises left to see replacing them.

If there is one thing in this world Junhui knows, it is how he wants to watch the sunset come. If there are two things he knows, the second is whom he wants to watch that coming sunset with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helllllooooooooooooooooo here's the update!! we are very close to the end so i figured i may as well add our finale counter to the old summary there officially. i am halfway done with finals but i did my best to get this chapter out anyway and will do my best as well to get the final 2 out in a timely fashion!!!! thank you for sticking with me!!  
> again, thank you for reading, whether you've been around for a while or have only just recently joined in or only came here to leave a comment telling me to fuck off. i sincerely sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter and have been enjoying the story so far, mean it!! thanks so much for giving this story a chance!  
> as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and i'll see you next time (only two more times!) with another update!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cruises can seem to last forever. Have your cake and eat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long one kids.... buckle up

Slow as the infernal beat of the ocean and swift as the turn of the earth, they pass two days on the water amid the scent of sunscreen and the giddy squeals of vacationing children. Despite copious worries about incurable seasickness and possible boat capsize, the waters below the gleaming hull carry them along in a faithful march toward their destination, even footfalls and steady passage. On the first day, Jihoon goes for a spin or eight in the huge slide onboard, and Junhui ends up rubbing aloe into his shoulders again while he nurses a small cup of ice cream and stares out the window. Come day 2, Junhui heads into the casino nestled in the catacombs of the ship’s vastly overabundant amenities and tries his luck until Jihoon has to forcefully extract him from the machine, penniless and emptied of his optimism. He hopes with every nerve in his body that’s not a forecast of the luck he’ll be having when he talks to Jihoon again later, brings up that question festering in the folds of his gray matter.

“We’re making land tomorrow,” Jihoon whispers the night before they do, glowing beams from the far-off moon filtering in through their window. Junhui cracks his eyes open to see the way they fall on Jihoon’s face, ribbons of silver tracing every swell and dip, glittering in his eyes as they stare at the ceiling. From this angle, Junhui is certain he can’t be human, nothing but a seraph deposited at his side by the platinum hands of god himself.

“Are you excited?” he whispers back, arm gliding slowly through the sea of the sheets to find Jihoon’s side, his arm, neck, to uncurl a few fingers and thread them through his hair. With only the smallest of tilts, Jihoon pushes his head further in Junhui’s direction, closer to the hand at his ear, gaze still unmoving from the blank canvas above.

“I guess,” Jihoon tells him, voice drifting through the air with the rhythm of the tides. “It feels like it’s been years since I set foot on dry land.” Junhui hums for the air in the room to carry and kill, buried beneath the creaking sound built into the ship’s motion. He gets that feeling, too, like he’s lived a thousand lives since they embarked days ago, mind stuck in an endless loop of cycling back through the same footsteps on board a traveling labyrinth, lungs recycling the same salty air. Maybe landfall will bring some fresh breath, some fresh luck. Junhui knows he needs it.

“I wonder what kinds of things there’ll be to do.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Jihoon says, devolving into a yawn on the tail end. With a slow sweep of the arm, he pats Junhui’s hand by his ear, lets his fingers linger over the knuckles. “Let’s get some sleep.” Junhui chuckles, quiet puffs of air that barely pass by his lips.

“You’re the one who started talking,” he points out. Jihoon snorts, and Junhui wishes there were some way to archive that sound so his brain would never lose track of it.

“Shut up,” is Jihoon’s response, smile audible. “Just go to sleep.”

“Fine,” Junhui concedes, and with one more breath, he dives headfirst into a dream he’ll never be able to recall.

When they arrive come the morning, Junhui is already expecting the heat, but the humidity catches him off guard, reminds him a lot of Florida but even worse, sweat glistening on his arms and face before they’ve even made it all the way off the boat. Ever so slowly, they file back down to the earth after countless of their fellow passengers, two unidentifiable dots in a vast sea of humanity. He can feel the heat of the ground through his sandals, frying at the soles of his feet and commanding him to dance, can even see it rising off the sand and rippling the images in front of his face. The water looks cool, but he remembers enough from science classes he took eons ago to know that diving in for just a second would only feel like climbing out of the oven to hop immediately in a simmering pot. No matter how much he wishes for them, no cool breezes drift by to ease his suffering.

“What do you want to do?” Jihoon asks, cheery behind sunglasses, freshly applied sunscreen giving his face a dewy look that makes Junhui’s heart feel young again. While they walk, the back of his hand brushes against Junhui’s dangling fingers, but unfortunately, it’s much too hot to hold. “We have until six, I think, to do whatever we want.”

“What is there to begin with?” Junhui asks despite being very much able to see a plethora of available activities before his eyes. The fact of the matter is, he’s too hot to focus on figuring out what any of them are. “Anything that’ll make me feel less like I was catapulted into the sun?”

“Unlikely,” Jihoon says around a short laugh, one so brief it might be mistaken for a simple breath if Junhui isn’t careful. “If there’s nothing particular you have in mind, there is something I wanna try.”

“What is it?” Junhui asks. Slender fingers wrap around his wrist and start tugging him away before he’s fully processed the sensation. It’s too hot, but he can’t come close to minding.

“You’ll see,” Jihoon snickers.

The activity of choice turns out to be some sort of thing where you get to snorkel around with dolphins, and it takes them a bus ride and a boat ride before they actually get to see any of the slippery mammals, but Jihoon sits straight upright in his seat for the duration of both, eyes glittering with enthusiasm. Junhui’s never thought to ask before, a question like what Jihoon’s favorite animal is—it seems so trivial in the face of everything else happening around them—yet as they cross the lagoon toward the key where dolphins wait to be seen, he finds himself wanting to know, wishing he’d asked earlier.

“Are dolphins your favorite animal?” he asks. It gets completely drowned out by the splashing around them, but Jihoon still pivots his head to answer, ears pricked at the sound.

“I don’t know if they’re my favorite,” he admits, “but I like them. They’re supposed to be really smart.” His smile is calm, a little perplexed, unshaken by the jolts of the boat. Completely dazzling, Junhui thinks. “Why?”

“Ah, no reason.” Jihoon’s look won’t let him use that as a reason. “I just realized I didn’t know, so I was curious.” Jihoon scrunches his nose up when he nods, and Junhui never knows what to make of that expression when he does it, but he does know he wants to keep the sight with him for a while.

“What’s yours?” Jihoon asks. “Your favorite animal, I mean.” Junhui searches the sky in thought, cloudless and blue and either swimming with answers or completely dry of them.

“I’m not sure,” he finally ends up with. “I like cats, I guess.”

“Cats seems like something you would say.” He grins. “But I always took you for more of a dog guy.”

“I like both,” Junhui tells him.

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Jihoon is too busy laughing to give him a real answer, so Junhui’s left with nothing to do but laugh along and watch the water flit by as they skip along toward their destination.

 Upon arrival, they meet a group of enthusiastic employees with tanned skin and wide smiles who explain to them a lot more about dolphins than Junhui ever expected or particularly cared to learn, and due to the unforgiving hellishness of the heat and Junhui’s inability to focus on anything aside from it, most of what they say goes in one of his ears and withers to dust before it can even find its way out on the other side. Jihoon is seemingly unfazed by the heat, takes it all in with lips set in a line of focus and eyes wide open to see all they can. His face splits into a grin riddled with childish excitement while the staff fit them with snorkels and masks, frame wobbles side to side while he waits impatiently until he finally gets the chance to wade out into the water and encounter one of the dolphins for himself.

“Her name is Marie,” one member of the staff calls as they drift out toward one of the dolphins, not yet surrounded by a swarm of parents with their children. Jihoon nods without taking a glance away from his target, slow steps forward through the water, careful not to stir too many ripples on the surface. The amount of pure focus on his face tugs at a lot of things in Junhui’s core he’s hesitant to put a name on, tears him in twenty and sews him back up just the same.

“Hi, Marie,” Jihoon says when they near, and she bobs her head not quite enough to seem deliberate but enough to look like it may not have been accidental. Sunbeams tear through Jihoon’s teeth when he smiles.

“Feel free to touch her a little,” the staff calls again with a supportive thumbs up. “You can pat her on the head or kiss her or anything as long as you’re gentle.” Jihoon turns his head at light speed, and Junhui’s ears are hit by either the sound of his neck snapping or something else too dangerously close to that for him to be comfortable.

“I can kiss her?” he yells, frightening the three children closest by out of their skin. Junhui’s stomach feels a lot like jelly for two reasons. Firstly, he can never believe how overwhelming Jihoon is in every sense of the word, how charming and incredible and far beyond perfect. Secondly, he wishes Jihoon would get that excited to kiss him. It’s just a dolphin, he tells himself. Don’t get even remotely jealous over his excitement for the dolphin. Don’t be childish. Yet he still feels a tiny pang.

“Go right ahead,” the cheery girl tells him, and Jihoon takes one brief breath before leaning down to press his lips to the dolphin’s head, eyes shut in slim crescents.

Few things have ever pulled Junhui to pieces more than this does, this sight, this fleeting image of Jihoon, glowing and beautiful, pressing a tender kiss to the head of an innocent dolphin that can’t begin to comprehend how lucky it is, how special the kiss it’s receiving. Junhui’s not even fully sure why it should be affecting him so much, why it’s cleaving his chest in two and filling him to the brim; perhaps because Jihoon just always has that effect, or because he’s softened so much in the heat and humidity, or because Junhui’s just glad he can be here to see it, to see this fully encompassing look of bliss and know he’s somehow a part of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Junhui remembers hearing they could take pictures here, and his hands move on their own to the camera around his neck, releasing it from its case and fumbling as quickly as possible to snap a shot. He takes more, too, as many as he thinks he can get away with before Jihoon hazards a glance back at him, and he hopes they capture some of the sunlight he’s feeling along his bones, around his organs.

Come Junhui’s turn, Jihoon makes certain to take a flurry of his own photos, probably blurry and unfocused but irreplaceable just the same, and before too long, they’re putting Junhui’s camera into a locker and heading to snorkel around with the whole crowd of dolphins, maybe a dozen if Junhui could get his brain to focus on counting. Jihoon’s cheeks edge toward a grin each time their eyes meet under the line of the water, and Junhui can never stop his from doing the same. Once or twice, they find each other’s hands and intertwine their fingers for just a moment, lazy and careless, and Junhui only regrets that he has even less breath than usual to lose track of.

Their adventure with the dolphins lasts four hours in total, after which the heat has finally started to wear away at Jihoon’s stamina as well, but not enough to force them back onto the ship early. The opportunity to zipline catches Junhui’s attention, and at his abundant coercion, Jihoon finally gives in to trying despite his tremendous fear of being kept safe by only a harness and a cable. He’s never done it before, so maybe he should try it, he reasons, and maybe the breeze from the glide will cool him off. As it happens, the wind is refreshing, but not enough to fully distract from the peril inherent in ripping along a suspended cable until either gravity takes you out or you scrape your feet into the dirt to avoid smacking into a tree. Jihoon is far too drained post-zip to do anything aside from meander along the beach until time has come to board again, so that’s all they do, walk down the strip of sand with warm water lapping at their feet as the sun continues in its unhalting arch across the dome of the sky.

The following morning sees their arrival at Belize, a bright and shining eight o’clock as with the day before, and Junhui lies awake in bed for a full seven minutes preparing himself for the suffocating heat waiting outside to get its hands on him. He knows a time in his life will never come when he’ll be ready for it to be so hot so early in the day, but he can’t help hoping in vain that today he might be, might just barely be able to handle it. As he searches the ceiling in an effort to gather a little of the necessary strength, he hears a small rustle at his side, one which turns into a large rustle and subsequently into a body that rolls over to squeeze the air out of his lungs.

Before he’s got the breath to ask what’s going on, his idle lips are busy, overtaken by a pair that vaguely smile against his mouth, sweet and calm and soft under the pale yellow light blazing in through the window. Jihoon’s smile stays when he detaches, soft curls of hair sticking up in unusual spots, and were it not for the distinct sensation of elbows pressing into his ribs, Junhui would be convinced he’s still neck deep in a dream.

“Good morning?” he asks more than greets, lips overwhelmed and still buzzing.

“Happy birthday,” Jihoon answers, patting the skin over Junhui’s heart and sending muted sparks through his arteries. His palms are cold again today, Junhui can’t help but notice, colder than he can remember them being for a long time. He wants to grab hold, to warm them up, but Jihoon is rolling off him just as quickly as he can think it, kicking his legs out of bed and getting ready for the day. Junhui sits up straight, scratches his head, looks for a calendar on the wall that isn’t there.

“Today’s my birthday?” he asks, face decorated by a perplexed frown that’s trying much harder to think than it should need to. He guesses Jihoon did say something about it the other day, but he must have forgotten just as quickly as he heard it. Jihoon snorts as he slips a shirt over his head, and that sound never becomes less like music no matter how many times Junhui hears it.

“You don’t know your own birthday?” Jihoon caws. “Do you ever remember anything?”

“Obviously I know my own birthday,” Junhui huffs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes one final time with tired knuckles and heaving himself to his feet. “It just slips my mind sometimes, since I don’t usually celebrate it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m always alone,” Junhui is about to say, but it feels too sad to let past his teeth, so he keeps it back, and then, sudden as any landslide and heavy as any rock fall, he’s struck with the realization that this is the first birthday in seven years he won’t be spending alone.

His birthday has become something of a downer, an anti-occasion, a reminder of his own loneliness so poignant he’s purposely numbed himself to the sting, made himself forget the day as it nears and remember again only once Jeonghan makes a passing comment about his birthday being around this time of year and my, how old he’s getting, and hopefully it is or was a good day, depending on when he remembers to bring it up. With someone else to remind him of it, it’s much more difficult to ignore its passing until weeks after the fact, and with Jihoon in particular reminding him of it, it’s hard to think of it as something not worth celebrating. His lungs flood to bursting with something he hasn’t felt in them for a long time, a deep pull at his bones and guts and everything, and he thinks this must be what it is to feel part of a whole. It’s a wonderful thing, he believes, to be able to feel good about his birthday again.

“I just don’t, I guess,” he decides to say, in lieu of a long-winded explanation he doesn’t have enough composure to deliver and Jihoon likely doesn’t have enough patience to hear. Jihoon raises his eyebrows while massaging sunscreen into his cheeks.

“Do you want to do something special to celebrate it today?” Jihoon inquires.

“Do you want to?” Junhui returns.

“It’s _your_ birthday, Junhui.” The smile he wears isn’t quite neutral, not quite the usual, but it isn’t at all unkind. He pats Junhui’s bare shoulder with fingertips still slightly tacky with sunblock, and Junhui feels a subdued chill beneath each one. “You decide if you want to celebrate.” Junhui strokes his chin in thought as he meanders toward his luggage to extract clothes for the day.

“Well,” he reasons at last, “we didn’t really celebrate your birthday, so we may as well celebrate mine.” Jihoon grins at him.

“That seems fair.”

Stop number two has no shortage of interesting ways to spend time on shore, and it also has no shortage of trapped thermal energy to drown them in. A coin flip decides that they’ll tour ancient ruins instead of go tubing down the rivers and through caves, and Junhui hopes at least that the giant stone structures will be cooler than the outside air, though if they are, it doesn’t make enough difference. He’s sure to take plenty of pictures of Jihoon in front of everything he sees, and in turn, Jihoon takes plenty of him as well, a perfect set to match each other always. After hours of hiking around over stone pathways and through long-abandoned corridors, they decide to take a boat tour around the town where they’ve docked, feel the warm water splash them up to the elbows and the sun edge its way in to reach them from under the boat’s awning, and before they’ve had sufficient time to blink, Junhui’s birthday is almost over and they’re heading back onto the ship for the evening.

When he sees how high the sun still hangs in the sky, he feels like he definitely shouldn’t be as tired as he is, but the day has certainly taken a lot out of him, painted him in shades of gold as close to red as they might feasibly bridge, pushed every last drop of energy in his body through the soles of his feet and back down to the earth. Parts of him consider rescinding his decision to celebrate in some special way today, but the shape of Jihoon against the burning blue of the afternoon sky reels him out of it, stitches his sails back together with careful precision.

It’s his birthday today, he reminds himself. It’s his birthday today, and this is the first and likely only birthday he will ever get to celebrate while Jihoon is around to celebrate it with him, and even if he feels like his bones might turn to dust from fatigue and skin melt away from heat, there can and should be nothing to stop him from having this. More than that, a birthday is a unique thing, a time when you can ask for things you aren’t normally allowed to lay a finger on, things you would never usually be able to ask for, and what can this particular birthday be but one final stroke of luck, a single golden opportunity from the universe to ask for something he knows this timeline would never want him to have? If only this once, he would love to be able to have his cake and eat it too, lick the plate clean of every last crumb.

Before he gets in the shower, Jihoon instructs him to don his nicest attire once he’s all cleaned up, and after he’s exited the shower, he struggles to sift through the mess of balled up clothes in his suitcase to find something that a loose stretch of the word might consider nice. Having forgotten his birthday was even on the calendar, he completely ignored the possibility of doing something remotely fancy to celebrate it when packing, and as a result, his selections are entirely comprised of casual beachwear wholly unsuited to anything nicer than a few hours in a reclined plastic chair. While he digs through in desperate search for anything which could be seen as halfway acceptable, he’s accosted by a heavy wave of nostalgia, a feeling so akin to déjà vu he can’t think of anything else to call it but just unlike enough it would be wrong to refer to it as such.

If he closes his eyes, he’ll be eight months younger, lifetimes less lived, digging through his closet in search of clothing to wear on his first date in who knows how many years. If he closes his eyes, he can feel that again, that nervous tick hammering beneath his ribs, the woolen threads of sweaters as he casts them to the side, the uneasy sweat beading on his forehead and behind his ears. If he closes his eyes, he can go straight back to a time that feels so far away from now, so different and so similar, lonelier and more confusing and also not at all.

If he keeps his eyes open, he stays here in the present, long bygone nights slowly fading to black behind him, powdering themselves with dust until he can nary spot a single detail. If he keeps his eyes open, he can feel the moment he’s in now, feel how many worlds it is apart from its prior parallel, feel the thin cloths of summer clothing beneath his fingertips. If he keeps his eyes open, he might be able to see something he doesn’t want to miss; as easy as it is to drown in the past, he isn’t ready to succumb to the tide just yet. At long last, he extracts a deep blue cotton shirt and shorts that look passably close enough to khakis from his tangle of garments and holds them up to the light.

“Are those the nicest clothes you brought?” Jihoon asks, peeking his head around the doorway of the bathroom, and Junhui’s soul is very nearly startled out of his body. He throws a glance back, lips pursed.

“Maybe,” he admits, and the smile Jihoon fixes him with is enough to make up for everything, everything that could possibly happen, be it a stormy day or a migraine, an earthquake or a meteor. The sparkle in his eyes is enough for the stars to wither in envy.

“That should be fine,” Jihoon tells him, then slips back to take his own shower. The afterimage of his grin is still burned on the backs of Junhui’s eyelids after he’s gone, glittering copper, stunning in every way. When Junhui allows himself a moment to shut his eyes, he thinks it’s more than just wonderful to have someone here this time to tell him it’s fine.

Their dinner destination is a result of Jihoon’s careful perusal of the ship’s enormous myriad of options, a nice little bar-type restaurant with live musicians performing on a small stage at the back and a stretch of the floor cleared for dancing in front of them, already half-filled with rowdy youths when they arrive. The table they’re seated at is only a hair away from the dance floor, far distanced from the crop of tables filled with couples too elderly to try their hand at matching the song’s pace. When the server comes to take their drink orders, Junhui can only barely hear him over the loud thrum of the band’s bass.

He doesn’t remember what he orders or what it tastes like, how it smells or how quickly it comes, how much he eats or if he stops to take a drink. All his mind can pin down is Jihoon, how he sits there and sings along with the performers onstage, how the light reflects off him so beautifully it seems he’s become a part of it. He does remember reaching over to make sure Jihoon hasn’t really been taken up by the glowing rays from the bulbs above them, tangle their fingers on the tabletop, and while he can feel the sensation of the hand in his and the cool buzz of a heartbeat coming from Jihoon’s palm, he still looks too ethereal, too soft and gorgeous for Junhui believe he’s done anything but hold onto a dream. Jihoon’s lips curl into a charmingly curious smile after a moment, but he doesn’t draw his hand back like Junhui is always afraid he might, and Junhui hopes it isn’t just because of his birthday.

“Excuse me, folks,” comes the lead singer’s voice through the speakers, long after they’ve finished their entrees, unfinished slice of complimentary chocolate cake sitting between them with the slowly melting lump of ice cream on top reflecting the light like a miniature, misshapen travesty of the moon. The front man’s voice is a little low and a little raspy, plagued by a twang of southern accent his singing has been disguising thus far, and somehow, it reminds Junhui of a song he’s heard a million times but never been able to call to mind. “If y’all don’t mind, we’re about to slow things down with a little waltz I grew up listening to.”

“A waltz?” Jihoon muses. The excitement of the dancing crowd wanes at the sound of the word _slow_ , but all the aging pairs find it in them to finally step into their dancing shoes at the sound of the word _waltz_ , rising from their tables and waddling toward the clearing with shaky steps and hunched backs. Something about the first few bars on the guitar sounds a little familiar to Junhui, but he can’t quite place it. “Do you want to dance?”

“Do I want to dance?” Junhui asks back intelligently, bringing himself to focus once more on what’s in front of him rather than what he can’t reach. Jihoon’s hands are already braced against the table, prepped to pull himself to his feet and mosey over. “You want to dance?”

“We don’t have to,” Jihoon tells him, fingers drumming along to the slow beat, “but we did go to all those dance classes to learn how, so I feel like it might be a waste if we don’t.” Junhui eyes a few more weary figures hobbling out to dance and forces himself out of his chair with a shallow sigh.

“I guess you have a point,” he says, and Jihoon takes his hand to lead him out onto the floor among their weary companions.

The song sounds familiar, too familiar to be coincidental, but Junhui is more preoccupied by the sea of dusty bones surrounding them than he is by figuring out where he’s heard it before. As they make slow turns in steps of three, Junhui sinks further into himself, blending the colors into one another until they’re in a world all their own. Try as he might to focus on the rest of the universe as it turns around him, all he can get to stick in the sieve of his skull is Jihoon.

One, two, three. Around they go, and Jihoon is more captivating than he has ever been before, the physical manifestation of everything Junhui has ever thought he needed, wanted, the embodiment of all the universe’s scarce drops of good concentrated before him. He can’t be real, Junhui thinks, can’t be real at the same time I’m lucky enough to touch him. One, two, three, around again, and the lines on Jihoon’s face are a map Junhui feels he’s been trying to decipher for ages. One, two, three, and Junhui feels he’s lived twenty years in just eight months, bones creaking under the strain. Around they go.

“You look busy,” Jihoon tells him. Junhui knows what he means by _busy_ is _thoughtful,_ something like his parents used to say that when he was growing up. It’s less of a mouthful than saying you look like you have a lot on your mind, Jihoon told him once, and Junhui guesses that’s true enough.

“I just feel old,” he explains, because he does right now. Maybe he has never been older in his life than he is right now, but that doesn’t mean he should have to feel like he’s lived through the death and rebirth of the planet seven times over.

“Because it’s your birthday?” Jihoon asks him.

“Maybe,” Junhui allows. He feels the subtle warmth of Jihoon’s body under his palms while they dance, electric through his every nerve. “I feel young, too,” he adds, also because he inexplicably does. “I don’t really get it.”

“I think I get it,” Jihoon tells him, lips a thin curve. If he does get it, Junhui would love for him to explain it, but he’s robbed of the chance when Jihoon starts humming along to the song, jumps in on the word _darlin’_. “Ah,” he breathes, “it’s this song.”

Junhui knows it now. This is the song Soonyoung played when they first learned to waltz, the first song they ever danced to together, this melancholy tune about lovers lost in a single dance. How bizarre to hear it so far away from where it first crossed his ears, spinning in gradual circles on a floating surface in the middle of the ocean. How strange to hear it again at all, this different arrangement that almost sounds like its own song altogether. Junhui’s heart swells painfully, strains to find more space in the hollow of his chest.

“Funny that we’re hearing it again all the way out here,” Jihoon says. “It feels like it’s been years.”

“Yeah,” Junhui agrees numbly, head buried in the clouds. He spares a glance at the singer, warbling the words into the microphone with lids drawn closed, like he’s murmuring a secret to a dear old friend. “I wonder if Soonyoung and that guy know each other.” Jihoon snorts.

“Probably not,” he reasons. “I’m sure a lot of people in a lot of places have heard it. Besides, Soonyoung doesn’t have an accent.”

“That’s not proof of anything.” Jihoon bows his head toward Junhui’s chest when he laughs, a laugh that says, _I know it isn’t_. “We should tell Soonyoung that we heard it. That we danced to it again.” Jihoon hums and drowns out all music when he does, stunning the universe into careful silence for a single second save for that smooth sound rolling off his lips.

“And just think,” he says, “if we never went to those classes, we wouldn’t be dancing right now. We’d be sitting like a couple of bores doing nothing.” A hand pats Junhui’s shoulder where it rests, and when his eyes come to rest on Jihoon’s face, they find a smile there that spells many things, things like contentment and happiness, full and genuine, all Junhui could ever hope to see. “I’m glad we did it.”

“I’m glad, too,” Junhui says. His throat is too tight to explain how much more he means.

I’m glad we took the dance classes, he wants to say, and he wants to chase it with so many other things. I’m glad I got to see the sunrise with you and the fireworks at Disney. I’m glad we made bread together and went ice skating. I’m glad I was with you when you got your tattoo, and I’m glad I got to show you mine. I’m glad I kissed you on New Year’s. I’m glad we looked at the stars together and I told you I was in love with you. I’m glad I fell in love with you. I’m glad we met. I’m glad we’ve done everything we’ve done together, and I’m glad you were the one I got to do it with. As much as he wants to say every last bit of it, his jaw freezes and won’t let anything out, so he can only hope Jihoon has the sense to read it all from in between the lines. Junhui suspects he does.

When the song ends, Junhui’s head is still bursting at the seams with all he couldn’t express while they danced, but slowly and surely, the statements are filing themselves down, whittling away at the edges until they’ve transformed into a question, one Junhui’s asked already and had answered, one he needs to ask again. As a gift for his birthday, maybe he can hear the answer he wants. As a testament to his gratitude, maybe he can earn the right to hearing that answer.

He plods behind Jihoon with unsteady footsteps toward their room, chest shaking with nerves, skin abuzz. The closer they get, the less confidence he has in magic birthday power to allow him the guts to ask, allow him the luck to hear a yes in response, but he’s already set his heart on it. Since they watched the sun set on their first night waterbound, he’s had his heart set on it, and he can’t give up so easily now, not when time is slipping through his hands so fast it can hardly touch them. Something about the blue evening light painting the room through the window stills his core enough to keep him going.

“I didn’t get you anything for your birthday,” Jihoon says, “but we are on a cruise, so hopefully that makes up for it.” He flops back onto the bed, stare locked on the ceiling while Junhui falls beside him. “Besides, you didn’t get me anything for mine.”

“How fair and just of you to observe,” Junhui groans around the cacophony of his heartbeat in his ears. Behind him, beneath him, an arm loops itself around his neck, crooks itself around the back of his head, makes a connection to his opposite shoulder, where a hand lands to rub gentle stripes over the bump of muscle there.

“Have you had a good birthday?” Jihoon asks after a while of nothing but gazing blankly at the ceiling. Junhui wonders if Jihoon’s looking for stars up there the same way Junhui is looking for a little more courage.

“Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t had a good birthday in seven years, but today was a good birthday.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“Kind of?”

“Very sad,” he snorts. “Sorry for being inaccurate.”

Air rushes out of his lungs in the form of a dry chortle that makes its way into a hearty cackle without Junhui meaning for it to, maybe due to stress or nerves or a funny feeling in his gut his body thinks it can laugh away. Whatever the cause, Jihoon catches the bug in due time, laughs right along beside him until their stomachs are sore and they have tears budding at the corners of their eyes. This, Junhui thinks, is what he wants to have. He wants this soft laughter, this fond ache in his ribs, this feeling he’s right where he belongs and there’s someone on his side to hold him. He wants as much as he can get for as long as he can possibly get it, and he wants a little something more to know it’s guaranteed.

“Jihoon,” he says when they’ve quieted down, not one decibel above a whisper. “I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” Jihoon mutters back, toying with the hem of Junhui’s shirtsleeve. Outside the window, the sky grows darker, color draining from the world around it in the wake of a shimmering gold display. Junhui takes one deep breath and wills his insides to untie themselves from the innumerable knots they’ve wound up in.

“Will you marry me?” he asks. Immediately, he feels Jihoon stiffen at his side, feels the hand at his arm still, but he can’t take back asking now. Even if he could, he wouldn’t.

“Junhui.” His voice is tense. “We talked about this.”

“We need to talk about it again.” With a rustle of the duvet, he turns over, and Jihoon turns with him in the same direction, reclaiming his arm and curling up to face the wall. Slowly, gingerly, Junhui reaches out to lay his palm on Jihoon’s back. He doesn’t jump, and Junhui wonders how much he was expecting it.

“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Jihoon mumbles.

“There’s a lot left to talk about,” Junhui argues, rubbing a wide circle on the back in front of him. He’s always mesmerized by the way Jihoon’s frame can look so immaculate outlined from every angle. A silhouette gods can only dream about. “Will you listen to me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice.” He keeps up the circular motion more to keep himself calm than to comfort Jihoon. “But it is my birthday, and I want you to listen.” Jihoon huffs but doesn’t say more, and Junhui takes the silence as a cue to go on. He swallows the shake creeping into his voice. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yes,” Jihoon breathes. “I know.”

“Okay. I love you.” The longer he persists with the circles, the more he feels a heartbeat speeding at him through Jihoon’s spine, restless and rapid. In some strange way, it relaxes him. “I want to marry you because I love you. I don’t know what you think marrying you will stop me from doing, but I know it won’t. There’s no way I could regret it.”

“What about your grandma?”

“What about her? I loved my grandma, and I still love her. Not finishing college didn’t make me love her any less.” One slow circle of pause. “If I had finished college, I wouldn’t be with you right now.”

“Maybe that would be better for you, huh?”

“Don’t say that.” A chill runs up his spine, spikes him dead in the center of his brain. “Please, god, don’t way that. That would never be better.”

“You could have met a guy who’s better than me and married him instead.”

“There’s no way I could’ve.”

“How would you know?”

“There is nobody better than you.” Jihoon sighs, deep and heavy, enough to push the ocean’s waves in a new direction. “I mean it, Jihoon. Would you look at me?” He rolls around then, away from the wall and back to face Junhui, and his jaw is tight when he does it, lips pressed into a rigid line, eyes hard and straining and almost a little too shiny.

“Junhui,” he says, and he sounds so tired, like he’s marched through a war to be here and the sun is still keeping him awake. Behind Junhui’s ribs, his heart twinges, feels like it’s been left out in the cold wind of a coming storm, exposed to the frigid bite with no cloak as protection. “I do love you,” he begins, “but I don’t want this for you when you don’t deserve it. You deserve to marry someone you can stay with for a long time, who’s healthy and good for you, and I don’t want you to waste your first marriage on me before you find someone like that.”

“It’s not a waste.” What he means to say is, _Who else could I ever want to marry when no one in the world holds a candle to you?_ “It wouldn’t be, I mean.”

“You can say that now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll never take it back.”

“I’ll never take it back. Ever.” Jihoon jumps when Junhui raises a hand to toy with a curl of his hair, twist around behind his ear, slide a thumb along his jaw. Junhui raises his voice over the excessive noise coming from his chest and bites back his bunched up nerves. Brave face. “I never thought I could love someone as much as I love you. I mean it.”

“I promise you won’t be thinking that anymore when the time comes.”

“I promise I will.” Junhui flattens his palm over Jihoon’s cheek, warm and nervous and pink as roses. “I want you and everything that comes with you, Jihoon, and I’m not gonna say that I don’t just because you think I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. I knew from the beginning, and I love you anyway, and there’s nothing I can ever imagine wanting more than to be your husband and have you be mine.”

“What if I have a lot of debts to settle after I die?” Jihoon asks, fists balled tight, arms crossed resolutely over his stomach, an impregnable wall. “What if I got mixed up with a loan shark or something and you have to pay it all back for me? You’d regret it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Junhui asserts.

“You would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” While he watches, one lonely tear works its way out of Jihoon’s eye and slides down, over his nose and down his cheek, and Junhui brushes it away before it has a chance to land on the comforter. The frown on Jihoon’s face says he still doesn’t want to budge, but Junhui hopes it’s nothing more than a mask. “If it’s because you really don’t want to, just say so. But if it’s because you’re afraid for me, I really wish you would say yes.”

“Do you mean it?” His voice is strangely fragile, beyond the bounds of what Junhui can recognize. If he closes his eyes, he might forget this is Jihoon in front of him.

“Of course I mean it.” He inches closer on the bed. Something about having this conversation lying down doesn’t seem quite right, but they’ve already come this far, and sitting up now seems too intense. “You have a bunch of things on your bucket list, and I have marrying you on mine.” Jihoon heaves a breath, mouth wobbling into a softer line.

“If you say so,” Jihoon allows, and Junhui cracks into a smile without warning, stars flooding into his eyes. He sees stars in Jihoon’s, too, beautiful and swirling, far beyond what this galaxy could ever create. This is the night sky he wants to see, every night for as long as he can. This is the starscape he wants to live below.

“Very cute how you get to say that, but you get mad at me if I do.” Jihoon shrugs in response, and for a few moments, they do nothing but stare at each other, motionless and still and silent. At length, Jihoon’s lips blossom into a small smile, the easiest thing for Junhui’s eyes to read. His own smile grows a little more in kind. “So will you?”

“Will I what?” So he’s got it in him to tease now, Junhui thinks. He has a smile on his face, and his fists are uncurling themselves into open palms, palms to reach across to the man opposite him. It’s a very good thing.

“Will you marry me?” Junhui repeats. He feels now like he’s asked that more times than anybody should ever ask any one person anything, but deep in his core, he knows he’d still be willing to ask again. As many times as he has to, he’ll be willing to ask again.

“I guess I can’t really say no to you on your birthday,” he supposes after eons have crashed by in the parallel universes beneath those two sweeping arcs of lashes.

“Good thing I asked today then, huh?”

“Good thing,” Jihoon says. When he laughs again, it’s a quiet thing, soft and full, and it bends his neck until his forehead rests light against Junhui’s sternum. That laugh fills him to bursting, lights up along his bones and reverberates beneath his skin until he feels like his muscles have turned into music, resonant and sonorous and everything in the world. This, he thinks, is the luckiest he has ever felt. This is the luckiest he may ever feel again.

Junhui falls into a daze. He doesn’t remember the rest of the cruise, isn’t even sure how many more days it lasts, certainly doesn’t recall what they do the final day ashore or whether he takes enough pictures. He blinks and they are walking off the ship at the New Orleans port, blinks again and they are walking in Jihoon’s front door back home, blinks a third time and his life is as he has always remembered it—going to work, going home, sleeping, eating, aging. The only difference is that Jihoon is there this go around, filling his empty spaces with color so vibrant it dyes the rest of him as well, staining his eardrums with a song so rich it stays with him while he sleeps. In certain facets, he thinks he might have stumbled through a wormhole, into a new universe where life is allowed to be good, and the smiles Jihoon wears both ground him and give flight.

Scheduling the wedding is tricky. Not only do they have to work around the scores of other weddings Junhui has to work, but once Jeonghan hears the news, he declares he will die before missing the opportunity to photograph this particular wedding, so they are also forced to plan around his jobs. Shooting weddings is less of a barb in Junhui’s side now that he has his own to look forward to, but he does still feel the gross claws of envy on his back, fawning for the time they have, both together and to plan a celebration on such short notice. If only he and Jihoon had a few moments to spare, he thinks. As it happens, they don’t have even one.

Ten days before the selected date, they finally make the trip to purchase their rings. Given neither of them have too many friends of which to speak, they invite only a small handful of people to the ceremony—including, to Jihoon’s befuddlement and eventual acceptance, Soonyoung and his husband—and reserve a very small lot in a very small place, a little green field near a pond, a cluster of white chairs and a little white arch decorated with pink carnations and deep blue ribbon. It all seems so painfully generic when Junhui sees it, though the startlingly low guest count is slightly outside the norm, yet he can’t find it anywhere in him to be bothered by it at all.

“How do you feel?” Jeonghan asks, straightening Junhui’s tie for the last time before he walks out to wait at the end of the narrow path between two meager clusters of chairs. He grimaces while he does it, doing his best not to look at the tie directly and also not to give away how terrible he thinks it is, but Junhui sees right through him. “I can’t believe you’re wearing this fucking thing.”

“I can’t believe you can’t believe I’m wearing it,” Junhui snaps back, finger running over the tessellation of Jihoon’s face decorating the tie. Seven months it’s sat lying in wait, and Junhui can’t think of a single garment more suited for his wedding day. “And I feel good. And also nervous. And also a little bit like I might die.” Jeonghan smiles, fond and old, and Junhui sees memories shining behind his irises, buried but fresh.

“Sounds about right,” he tells him, eyes a little misty, and he moves his smile up to face Junhui head-on, bold and confident, as much a friend as he ever has been in his life. “And just think, you said he wouldn’t say yes.”

“He didn’t say yes.”

“But then he did.”

“But I was still right about him not saying yes.” Jeonghan’s tranquil smile morphs into a vengeful one when he gives another sharp tug. “That was uncalled for, asshole.”

“We were both right,” Jeonghan gently informs him. “And you know what? You’re the asshole, for having Seokmin be your best man instead of me.”

“You staked your life on taking pictures.” Junhui shrugs, shooing away the busy hands still yanking at his neck. “Can’t take pictures of the party if you’re in the party.” Jeonghan scoffs and rolls his eyes, completely his usual self but also completely different, and claps Junhui once on the shoulder.

“You still could have asked,” he says, then, “I’m gonna go now. I’ll see you on the other side.”

With that, he leaves Junhui alone with nobody but the version of himself standing in the wall’s single mirror to comfort him. His eyes find that mirror, search that reflection as over a map, tearing apart and rebuilding all they see. Is this the face of someone in love? He wonders while he stares himself down, asks that question for the second time. Are these the eyes and those the lips, the nose and forehead, skin and all? He raises a hand to check his cheek, to feel for those freckles like negative stars in an olive sky, and he watches that him in the mirror stretch his lips into a wider grin than he’s ever seen worn. This is that face, he thinks, he knows. Does it deserve to be his? He wonders again. He can’t know this answer definitively, but the fire in his lungs tells him to wish for yes.

Not many more minutes have passed before he’s waiting at the arch for his groom to come meet him, awkwardly avoiding staring at the small crowd in their seats and trying to pretend he can’t hear how heavily the officiant is breathing to his right. He feels like he’s cooking in this suit, not a cloud in the sky to buffer the sun’s blistering rays, and he’s in the middle of contemplating dashing off for a moment to find himself a drink of water when Jihoon finally rounds the corner.

As Jihoon’s parents are far too old and infirmed to do something like walk him down the aisle, and as Jihoon would never allow himself to be walked down the aisle in the first place, he struts in alone, proud and slow and only barely keeping a large smile at bay with a slightly reduced version. The look they decided to go for with their wedding attire was opposites, so while Junhui stands in a deep blue suit and crisp white shirt, Jihoon arrives to find him in a gleaming white suit with a blue shirt tucked inside. He looks amazing while he comes closer, never has looked more amazing as far as Junhui is concerned, but it’s not until he’s nearly reached his final destination that Jeonghan gasps in undisguised horror and Junhui recalls the final opposite.

The tie. Just as Junhui’s is a duplication of Jihoon’s likeness, so is Jihoon’s that of Junhui, a picture Jihoon snapped on his phone once when he hadn’t been paying much attention and had crafted into a tie just for today. Junhui spies regret in Jeonghan’s eyes while his finger hovers over the shutter button, premature regret and imminent indecision, but he flicks the button anyway, quiet shutter sound falling on the grass. Laughter dances in Jihoon’s eyes while he approaches, at his tie or at Jeonghan or at both or at anything, and Junhui can’t discern whether he’s hearing real music or it’s just Jihoon making him think he is. By the time they face each other directly, it’s reached its highest point, maestoso and powerful, graceful notes hanging from the sky and around his neck. Chords still drown his ears when the officiant begins speaking.

Junhui misses most of the vows. He repeats what the man beside him says blindly, mechanically, like he didn’t even write it, but he can feel a hot tear or two on his face, drawing its way down in a warm river to his chin, and he can see Jihoon as his reflection, and he figures there’s not much else that matters. He remembers to say _I do_ at the right cue, and so does Jihoon, and there is too small an audience for any objections, and then come the magic words.

“The grooms may kiss,” the officiant says, and the grooms do.

Maybe it’s a little much for a wedding kiss, and Junhui is grown enough to admit it, but when he tastes Jihoon’s lips on his, he’s already too far past any point where he might have cared. With his eyelids lowered, there is nobody watching, only the two of them suspended in space and time, etching forever into the blank of the darkness. With Jihoon’s hand on his shoulder, he is young again, years shedding like snakeskin until he’s every bit as inexperienced as his racing heart feels. He is fifteen and fluttering beneath this flowered arch, and when he feels Jihoon’s heartbeat through his fingertips, he is home.

The reception is a small affair, hosted at Soonyoung’s studio through his very gracious offer, a few small tables of homemade dishes including Seokmin’s famed lasagna, a black curtain hung up on one side over the mirrors and a banner reading _Congratulations!_ adorning the wall opposite. After eating, Soonyoung dims the lights and sets up his stereo to play his “extra special wedding playlist,” as he calls it. Mingyu whispers to Junhui while Soonyoung gets the stereo going that he spent hours putting it together and to at least pretend he likes it.

“Now,” Soonyoung announces at last, “if the new couple would take the floor for their first dance.” He gestures with a flourish at the emptiest spot of flooring, wiggling his fingers, and Jihoon grabs Junhui’s arm to lead him out.

They both laugh the second they hear the beginning of the song, have heard it too many times now not to recognize it. Junhui wonders for a moment whether it’s the only waltz Soonyoung has in his arsenal, but figures that it can’t possibly be if he’s a dance teacher. Perhaps he’s just got a sixth sense for knowing when certain music ought to play, certain dances be danced. The couple goes around in small circles, alone in their company, grinning despite the tears threatening to flow without warning. While they dance, Junhui can’t help but stare at his own ring, gleaming on his finger.

Junhui never thought having a thin gold band circling his left ring finger could make him feel so much like he’s at home, but so long as he sees an identical sheen above Jihoon’s knuckle, it does, miraculous and impossible. There’s so much more power in a loop of metal than he presumed there would be, and he feels it especially when Jihoon’s hand is in his, when he feels that cold stripe warming against his skin. Though the tone is completely other, the color and the shine galaxies apart, the gold reminds him of a lock he knows, fastened to bridge for all to see, to bear the brunt of the weather’s woes without crumbling. These rings are a lock too, in their own special way, a unique sort with no key or code, a lock no tool could ever unfasten. Junhui is fonder of this lock than he can ever remember being of any before it, and he’s content to have it be so.

“ _My friend stole my sweetheart from me_ ,” Jihoon sings along softly, breaking Junhui free of his thoughts again, tone melancholic but bridging on joyous, far more gorgeous than the recorded track could ever hope to be. A sandy chuckle slides between his lips. “This is a terrible song to play at a wedding.”

“Maybe,” Junhui admits, “but I think it’s a good song for our wedding.” Jihoon nods and closes his eyes, and for just a second, Junhui forgets he isn’t in an art museum.

“I think I get that,” Jihoon says. “Feels like it would’ve been wrong not to play this song at our wedding.”

“I had a feeling you might agree.”

As the song continues, so does their leisurely turning, so does the swelling of Junhui’s heart beyond the limits of its cavity. In this moment, in this tiny dance studio, among this small smattering of acquaintances and the dimmed lights bouncing off silver mirrored walls, he feels like the luckiest version of himself he could possibly be, that all the infinite other iterations of himself in their infinite other timelines may be so much luckier and he doesn’t care. In this moment, he finally feels that this universe has given him something worth having.

“You know,” he says as the song starts to fade out, “I love you. I don’t think I could’ve been luckier than I was meeting you.”

“You know,” Jihoon echoes, smile full on his lips, “I think I could say the same.”

The final notes draw out when Junhui leans down to kiss Jihoon again, full and feeling and flush with everything inside of him. Through his muted consciousness, he hears the snap of Jeonghan’s camera, capturing a final shot for the album of their day, but Junhui doesn’t need that picture at all. Jihoon’s hand is on his neck and back under his hand, hair pressing onto his forehead and mouth against his own, and he knows this frame is immortalized in him forever, sewn into the stitches of his being and stretched around his heart unbreakable.

No matter how many pictures he looks at, none could ever compare to the immaculate album his heart has now become. When he leans away again and gazes into Jihoon’s eyes, he wonders how he ever thought they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HELLO THANKS FOR READING i'm so sorry this took like a literal month to write but i had to take a break from writing it to work on sth else for a fic exchange which ended up waaaaaaaaaay longer than it needed to ( and will also be posted in a few days :-]) and then also i had to put a WHOLE LOT in this chapter so on its own it was already really long. school is done now so i have nothing to do but work and write (hooray!) so i will speed along with the epilogue as fast as my nasty little hands can and we can all have a little peace of mind finally  
> i really hope u enjoyed this chapter. i had to put a lot in here to stick to me chapter count goal that i already set, and i really truly hope u enjoyed all that u read. if u want this chapter to be the very end of the story and u like where it is, feel free to just not read the epilogue at all. i'm not spoiling anything but i'm just saying if u are scared i will not hold it against u if u stop now. i mean they're married. come on  
> once again, thank you for reading and i really truly do hope u had a good time reading. thank u to everyone who has been with me thus far and to anyone else who might be diving in here at the end. i'm so grateful for all the positive feedback i've received thus far, and as always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated now as well! i'll hurry as much as possible, and i'll see you one last time with our next (and final!!!) update!!


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes on.

Early morning light finds its way in through the curtains on the window, streaming through the gap where they stir because of the air conditioning. It paints over the stillness of the room in pale streaks, dyeing all colors back to their original hue slowly and slowly, a worn out bruise of space making its gradual shift into the tapestry it used to be. As the light creeps in farther, stretching back to the corners on the room’s far wall, the mass on the bed stirs, rolls under the thick covers. One arm sticks out beyond the layer of blanket, hand slowly uncurling its fingers.

“Jihoon.”

His voice is gravelly, rough as early morning voices often are, still thick in the midst of warming up for daily use. It bounces off the walls and comes back to him an inaudible echo, swallowed by the sheets and the mattress and the carpet and his own skin, silent after no more than a second of the air around him buzzing with sound. He clears his throat once, twice, tests out the hum of his voice on the quiet of the room, timid but sure, and pushes himself off the mattress, pulls his back into a slumped arch covered by the blanket he’s tangled in, fixes his eyes on the creamy blankness of the wall beyond. Wait though he does, no response comes to his call. After a silent minute ticks by, he clears his throat again.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says this time, and no sooner has the final word left his tongue than his ears are met with a telltale metallic tinkle as the German shepherd sleeping on the bed by the door rises to its feet with a hushed bark.

The soft padding of four small paws follows Junhui around while he roams the room, stops beside him as he pulls his legs into a pair of pants and his arms into a couple of shirt sleeves, resumes when he heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water and slip his shoes on by the door. The golden nametag hanging from the dog’s collar jingles when he clips the leash onto it, a woven length of red that’s dulled over the years, and as soon as the sound of the click hits the air, the dog’s ears are alert, sprung to its feet and pacing in impatient circles. Without a word of parting to the empty house behind him, Junhui leads them out to the sidewalk.

Ever since he was a child, Junhui has liked dogs. His grandparents had a dog when he was young, a big one with long legs and curly brown hair that liked to pretend it was a lot smaller than it was. Junhui never knew the breed, probably some sort of mix, and he no longer remembers the name, but he loved that dog, thought it was one of the best things about going to visit his grandparents in his youth. He always begged for a puppy for his birthday or Christmas, but his mother was very firm in telling him no, said he wouldn’t be able to take care of one and she didn’t have the time to. In front of him on the sidewalk, the dog on the leash barks at a low-flying bird. She was probably right, Junhui thinks, but he’s glad he finally gets to have one.

Three weeks after Junhui and Jihoon got married, several things happened. Firstly and most importantly, they finalized the cancellation of the leases on their separate apartments and moved into one together, still close enough to town but not quite as smack in the middle of things as Jihoon had been before, quiet and comfortable and devoid of any 514 above them with a horrendous sound system to wake them up after midnight. It was different from living alone, different from what he remembered living with other people could be like, rooms decorated in an unusual mix of Junhui’s drab gray décor and Jihoon’s abundant color. Thankfully, Junhui was at a point in life where he liked for things to be different, wanted them to be. His home finally looked like somebody lived there.

The second thing that happened was that Jeonghan presented them with their wedding album, beautifully crafted and arranged inside a thick bound volume Jeonghan himself picked out, their names in calligraphy on the front cover, wedding date etched in black just below. It was a gorgeous masterpiece of a thing just from the outside, and he assured all the photographs came out nicely, all the angles and the lights, grass and flowers, but Junhui wasn’t ready to open it, to see, so he couldn’t bring himself to do much with it aside from prop it up on one of the end tables in the living room, stand it open just enough not to see inside. A few times, long down the road, he arrived home to find Jihoon poring over it with silent tears shining on his face, and that only made it harder to take a look.

Third and last and arguably more important than item number one in some ways, they adopted a dog. He was a border collie, no more than a month old when they got him, with adorable floppy ears and a tail that bent a little at the end in a way it probably wasn’t supposed to, and when they brought him home, Junhui thought he was the second most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his years. Jihoon named him Rooster for no other reason than he thought it would be funny to have an animal named after another animal, and in some strange way, the name fit him. It wasn’t that he got loud in the mornings or that his bark sounded like a squawk, but there was no better name Junhui could have imagined for him. Thus, with four tiny feet and a tail not quite straight, he made their little family of two bigger by one.

Rooster was a good dog. He got along well with Marbles, already huge and hardly looking like a puppy anymore by the time they first took him to meet her, and he didn’t bark at everyone who passed by the window or take shits inside. He had a lot of energy that led him to pulling Jihoon around by the arm on walks even from the time he was a puppy, nearly yanking his shoulder out of socket when he was bigger. Every evening when Jihoon got home from work, Rooster would bark once to greet him, nice and loud, and Jihoon would smile down at him while he asked Junhui how his day was. Junhui would tell him his day would have been a thousand times better if Jihoon got home just a minute earlier, and Jihoon would sigh, and then they would take Rooster out for a walk.

“I’m glad we got him,” Jihoon said once on one such night, while they rounded the second corner of the usual walking path and Rooster stared with intensity at a squirrel relaxing beside a fire hydrant. By that time, he was finally big enough to jump onto the couch on his own, but not quite to the point where he could see over the tops of the seats while still standing on the ground. It was early fall then, leaves just barely starting on their journey from green to red, and the air had its subtle way of drawing goosebumps on skin while the sun’s gradual setting stretched shadows out to infinity. Junhui’s eyes found Jihoon glowing in that fading gold sunlight, soft smile teasing at his lips while he watched the dog frolicking in front of them.

“Me too,” Junhui told him, a little too delayed, a little too thoughtful. The only thing keeping him much in the present was Rooster’s soft barking, the click of his paws against the concrete, the hum of cars passing by on the road beside them. With a long delay between thinking about it and doing it, he nudged Jihoon in the arm with his shoulder. “Hey, let me have the leash.”

No sooner had Jihoon passed the loop to Junhui’s hand than Junhui was lacing his fingers between those of Jihoon’s newly unoccupied one, fingertips dancing over the knuckles while he blew out a breath through his nose. “I knew you were going to do that,” Jihoon sighed, tapping his thumb on the back of Junhui’s hand anyway.

“And you still let me,” Junhui sang. Jihoon snorted, same as ever, a ceaseless constant no matter how much time passed alongside them.

“And I still let you,” he agreed. In front of them, Rooster scrambled over into the edge of the grass and crouched down, and Junhui felt the plastic bag being pressed into his palm before he heard it crinkling. “Since you’re the one holding onto the dog,” Jihoon told him with a grin, “you get the pleasure of cleaning that up.” He laughed when Junhui groaned.

Walking the dog was one of Jihoon’s favorite things to do, said it made him feel like he finally had something important to keep track of, and Junhui always liked to go along because it made him feel like he was finally part of something a little bigger. The soft sound of paws on a sidewalk slowly started to sound something like love, something like home, and even when Jihoon could no longer walk the dog, even when he wasn’t around anymore to smile at the dog after he got home from work, it still felt like home to take him out for a walk, so Junhui kept on doing it.

Rooster lived a lovely life of chasing birds in the park and catching Frisbees with the side of his mouth at the very last second, a life as happy as Junhui thought he could make it for him, and when he was still a puppy and Jihoon and Junhui found time to go and do some more of those things Jihoon wanted to do, he was with them. They took him to Niagara Falls and the Gateway Arch, every place they thought a dog could possibly be brought, and he was always a joy to have along. Maybe he was a type of medicine for Jihoon, too, a secret to a longer life, a boon hidden under black and white fur.

Even with the advancements of modern medicine, it can be hard to predict things accurately sometimes, to explain exactly how they’ll play out even when you’ve got all the variables laid down in front of you, and such was the case with Jihoon. The doctors told him not long before he met Junhui that his estimate was a little more than one year, and it was a generous one at that, said that maybe things would progress faster than they predicted and he would be wise to operate as if he had only half that amount of time left. Of course, Jihoon never operated under that supposition.

He lasted well beyond what the doctors had predicted for him, through two more of their birthdays each, until 19 days past their second anniversary. Sometimes he seemed so well that Junhui could almost forget there was some unidentifiable deadline always looming somewhere in front of them, and he could usually take those times to think about how nice it was to have Jihoon so close without a care in the world, how grand it was to have a family all his own. Come their first anniversary, he felt like Jihoon might live forever.

Junhui had an evening wedding to shoot that day, so in a rare twist of events, he was the second to arrive home, bustling in the door amid the cacophonous singing of cicadas from the park across the street from the complex. Much unlike his own birthday in years previous, that was a day that couldn’t have slipped his mind even in a nightmare, and he was fully prepared to take Jihoon out to dinner at the nicest restaurant he could think of when he wandered into the kitchen and was overwhelmed by a wave of savory fragrance he wasn’t used to finding there.

“Are you cooking?” he asked. Jihoon shot a look at him from over the stove with eyes that said, _Can’t you see?_ and a smile that said, _I’m glad you noticed_. Junhui inhaled a strong whiff, padding closer while rooster pranced in tiny circles around their legs. “What are you making?”

“Spaghetti,” Jihoon told him without much enthusiasm, tasting some of the sauce in the pot and scrunching his nose before adding a little more sugar.

“Fancy.” Try as he might, Jihoon couldn’t quite get his elbow to hit Junhui’s ribs with enough force to do any damage. After a minute of struggle, he sighed and tasted the sauce again.

“You have to start somewhere, Junhui,” he said more to himself than the man at his side, offering a small nod of approval to the pot before him. He jerked his chin at the countertop on the other side of the stove. “Would you slice that loaf of bread and put garlic butter on it? I already preheated the oven.”

“We’re having garlic bread, too?” Junhui asked, meandering over to grab the bread knife. “You know how to treat a man.” Jihoon snorted, waved his spoonless hand around in the air until Junhui caught it with his own, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. Butterflies were alive inside his chest when he got busy fashioning the bread into slices. “This sure makes me nostalgic,” he whistled, spreading butter on the first piece and laying it on the baking tray.

“It does?”

“You know,” Junhui said, sawing slice number two, “the first time I ever went to your apartment and we made bread. It reminds me of that.” More butter slathered, another slice added to the tray. “I mean, this isn’t making bread, but, you know. It feels kind of the same.”

“Do you want to make some bread later?” He was smirking when Junhui chanced a glance at him, eyes intent on the stewing pot on the stove. Junhui chuckled, drew the knife through the loaf again.

“That’s still the least sexy metaphor I’ve ever heard,” he said, “but it’s kind of sexy somehow when you ask it like that.”

“That’s me,” Jihoon laughed. “The sexy guy. Call me whenever you need anything sexy, and I’ll deliver.” Junhui laughed so hard the dog started barking.

“You’re so weird today,” he said.

“I feel good today,” Jihoon told him, earnest as ever. Junhui’s eyes were suddenly a little too tender for him to round up the guts to look in Jihoon’s direction. “I’m glad I could make it to our anniversary, even if it’s only one.” His voice trembled a little bit while he spoke, just enough to ensure Junhui’s eyes stayed glued to the loaf before him. Slice and butter, he reminded himself. Slice and butter.

“I’m glad, too,” Junhui choked out when he was almost out of bread to slice and reasons not to make eye contact. “I wish you could make it to our hundredth anniversary,” he’d blundered forward without thinking much. “I wish you could live forever.” The laugh that slipped out of Jihoon’s lips was a little too sad for an anniversary.

“You and me both.” A lump gathered in Junhui’s throat while he laid the final slice of bread on the tray, when he felt Rooster nosing at his calf to beg for a piece. “But you’d get tired of me if we had that long.”

“There’s no way I would,” Junhui told him, and when he turned around, Jihoon was already looking back at him, eyes shiny behind the lenses he always wore to protect them, lips stretched into a hard line. He looked like he wanted to say something and like he thought there was no point in saying anything, and Junhui suddenly had the feeling that he ought to be holding him, so he abandoned his knife and his bread and his garlic butter and crossed the tile to wrap his arms around him instead, press his thumbs into Jihoon’s shoulders and bury his nose in the crook by his neck. “I’m glad we’ve gotten what we have at least,” he said, close to Jihoon’s ear.

“So am I,” Jihoon said back, equally close, hands patting Junhui’s back in favor of stirring the simmering sauce. “Happy anniversary,” he muttered, and Junhui felt it through his skin and straight down into his bones, swimming in his veins and circling through his lungs.

“Happy anniversary,” Junhui mumbled back, and he had hope Jihoon would feel it the same way. He doesn’t remember much else about that night but the way the spaghetti tasted, just a little sweeter than regular, and how it was the first time he ever looked at their wedding album, though he can’t quite recall most of the pictures anymore unless he takes another look.

By the time their second anniversary rolled around, Jihoon had quit his job, holed himself up in bed, and been forced to give up taking Rooster on walks. Those were the times it began to dawn on Junhui that he couldn’t live forever no matter how much it once seemed like he might, that they were getting closer and closer to the down-set date and there was nothing they could do to stop its arrival. When Junhui told Jihoon about his day, when Rooster jumped to paw at him, when storms rolled by outside the window or the sun blazed hot, he rarely did much more than gaze listlessly at the wall, nod at cues, close his eyes when he got too overwhelmed. As much as Junhui wished for one, there was no miracle to come for him.

“Junhui,” he said one evening, and if Junhui closed his eyes and forgot how ghastly thin he had become, how sickly pale, he could pretend that voice was coming from a man just as near fine as Jihoon had been when Junhui first met him. “Do you still love me?”

“Of course,” Junhui answered without a second thought. For the first time in too painfully long, Jihoon was really looking at him, eyes intent and searching, forehead wrinkled in concentration. Even then, Junhui thought he was breathtaking.

“Do you mean that?” he asked next, extending his hand for Junhui to hold. Never had his fingers been quite so cold; they built icicles everywhere they touched Junhui’s skin.

“Always,” Junhui told him.

“Do you regret meeting me?”

“Never.”

With that, Jihoon smiled at him, tired and relieved beneath hollow cheeks and purple under-eye bags. He stroked over the back of Junhui’s hand with his thumb, back and forth in a slow rhythm that felt almost like a waltz, the smallest dance the world could muster. Through his palm, Junhui could feel his heartbeat, could feel how weak it was getting and how hard it was trying, and he thought he could see an infinity of worlds buried in mist when he looked into Jihoon’s eyes again.

“Would you kiss me one more time?” Jihoon asked.

“You don’t have to ask,” Junhui said, and Jihoon chuckled against his mouth when he leaned in to kiss him, freezing hand sliding over the back of Junhui’s neck and tangling fingers in dark locks of hair. His lips were soft and sweet and so crushingly final, and the longer they spent lingering on Junhui’s, the more certain he was of the words that would roll off them when Jihoon finally pulled himself back.

“I want you to leave now,” he said, certain and clear. Junhui watched him swallow a lump in his throat before continuing. “I think I can feel myself on the way out,” he breathed, hand trembling like mad despite the sure stillness of his voice, “and I don’t want you to be in here for it.”

“Okay,” Junhui choked, hardly audible, breath burning his throat on its way in and out, bruising his lungs. He gave Jihoon’s hand one last squeeze before leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. His bottom lip quivered even when he willed it not to, eyes threatened to betray a few tears especially since he wished they wouldn’t. As he drew back to take in Jihoon’s face, he saw that his eyes were shut, fallen into peaceful crescents, very slightest hint of an easy smile playing at his lips. “I love you,” Junhui whispered, and Jihoon’s eyes fluttered back open.

“I love you,” he said, and more than he was saying it back, more than he was delivering a response, he said it to put it on the air, to have the very last of it off his chest. When he said it then, it sounded like a wish, like a dream, like an accomplishment. When he said it, he sounded like he was singing the best song he could think to write, setting it free on the wind to ring through every universe eternally when he was no longer around to warble its honeyed notes, and Junhui was sure his voice had never sounded quite as beautiful as it did then. With one more tender smile, he sent Junhui out the door, and Junhui thought those three words were so very fitting to be the last he ever heard in Jihoon’s voice.

After Jihoon’s passing, he tried his best to go on like normal, to resume life as it had been before, though it wasn’t quite as simple as fitting pieces back in the frame of the puzzle and marking it off as complete. The pieces could never fit quite the same when the frame was shaped differently, could never fill up all the space when the size had grown by two, and desperate as Junhui was to restore the puzzle to what it used to be, he was forced to settle for a half-constructed version and pretend he was fine with it. Jeonghan told him he should change something at least, stop wearing his ring or take down some of the pictures of Jihoon on the walls, but that only felt like it would hurt more.

One thing that grounded him was walking the dog twice each day, once in the morning and once at night, so walk the dog he continued to do, a schedule like clockwork, pillars to hold the sky above him and weights to keep down the ground below. He made sure Rooster lived a good life because Jihoon wasn’t around to make sure of it anymore, and he made sure he lived a long life as well, long and healthy and pleasant.

Junhui doesn’t remember anymore how old Rooster was when he finally kicked the bucket, but he’s sure it had to have been somewhere in double digits, somewhere on the tail end of the typical expectancy for a healthy border collie. He had no doubt in his mind that he should get another dog, but he wasn’t sure what kind to get, didn’t want another of the same breed because it would have felt too much like a replacement and not at all enough like a fresh face. There was a German shepherd puppy at the third shelter he visited on his search, small and calm and bright-eyed, and he was sold from the second he laid eyes on it.

German shepherds were intelligent dogs, he’d heard, loyal and attentive, and there was something in this one’s eyes that looked so familiar he couldn’t help thinking of Jihoon when he looked into them. Thus, there was no more fitting name for a dog so keen and curious than Jihoon, no better compliment to pay a dog so beautiful and smart and serious. Jeonghan told him he should give the dog a different name, but it felt wrong to name him after another animal when it wasn’t Jihoon’s idea, and nothing else that came to mind fit well enough, so he disregarded Jeonghan’s advice once again and settled on the best name he had to his knowledge.

With the new dog came many other changes, gradual though they were. Despite all his warnings, there were no loan sharks out to get Jihoon and swallow up every last penny they could milk from him; on the contrary, he left to Junhui’s name a modest bit of savings and possessions that eased the burden of working and coming home alone, and when his parents passed, everything they had left was funneled to him, too, in the form of a lot more than he ever could have expected. Jihoon must have inherited his frugality from them, because even with the expenses to have kept them living in their facility, Junhui was bestowed with enough to buy himself a small house a little farther out from town, with a yard and a garage all his own, and after a few careful months of mulling it over, he decided to do it.

Other things changed as well. Gradually, he grew less and less inclined to stay in photography, and after several years, he took up a new job of a different sort, teaching children to dance at Soonyoung’s studio. Soonyoung said Junhui had more patience for teaching children than he did, was more suited to the task, and Junhui was happy to take him up on the offer, embark on a shadow of a new journey for himself. He retired his camera after finally having all the untouched photographs he took during his time with Jihoon developed, and Jeonghan pretended not to tear up the day he cleaned his desk off and walked out of the office the last time. Junhui promised to call often. Jeonghan promised he wouldn’t let him forget.

Things now are so very different than they used to be. As he’s aged, Junhui has lost track of the years, no longer knows how old he is or how long it’s been since he adopted this dog. What he does know is that his hair carries so much more gray than he ever envisioned for it, his joints aren’t as easy to move as they once were, his dog is so much bigger and stronger now than it was in the beginning, and that gold band still sits snug around his left ring finger, glittering regardless of the number of years it’s gone living there. He pushes it in circles with his thumb as he follows Jihoon on their walk today, frosty chill of the early morning air standing his hairs on end.

Whenever he takes walks, he still thinks about Jihoon, about how he would like the weather this morning and how he would find the sunrise, how his laugh would sound amid the quiet of a groggy neighborhood, tinkling off the dew frosted on the dying grass. Today is no exception. In front of him, the dog tugs at his leash with fervor, aching to sprint a little further forward, leave in search of something new, and all Junhui can think about is how he wishes Jihoon were around for this, to live this moment with him, to breathe it in and feel it for himself. There had been a time, eons ago, worlds ago, when the thought of staying in Jihoon’s apartment while he wasn’t there himself made Junhui feel like he was falling apart. The entire world is like that now.

That’s loss, Junhui figures. A perfect sight that isn’t quite so without the right eyes to look at it, a million crystalline moments that can never fully shine when the polish has gone missing. To go somewhere new and feel you’re somewhere old and worn, to find yourself and know that you are just as lost as ever. There are traces of Jihoon in things he never touched, outlines of him etched against places he never went, gentle tones of his voice melting into songs he never heard. It is a gross understatement to say Junhui still sees Jihoon in everything he does.

By the time they wander back in the front door, the sun has reared its head, peeking over the neighborhood’s rooftops and dappling the iced yards in pale golden sunlight. Junhui unhooks Jihoon from his leash and listens with calm ears as he trots back to curl up on his bed again before setting the coffee maker to percolate. The sound bubbles in his ears while he takes a look at the calendar, sucking in a thin breath when he spies the date and releasing it slowly.

“It’s today already?” he wonders aloud, tapping his fingernails on the counter. The longer he stares at the _Saturday_ on the calendar, the softer his gaze grows, warmer and shinier. “Well,” he whistles at last, “I have nothing else to do.”

Not long after noon has passed, sun still hanging close by its highest point in the sky, Junhui climbs out of the car, bouquet of pink carnations firm in hand. He walks down paths twisted and barren until at last he finds what he’s after, a humble headstone bearing a span of years far too brief and a name more gorgeous than any other he’s come to know. When he reaches it, he squats down right in front, lays his flowers to rest and digs his shaking hands deep into the pockets of his thick coat.

“Happy birthday, Jihoon,” he whispers to the stone, puffing out a soft breath that condenses on the air in front of him. For a moment, he closes his eyes, gathers his words, cheeks staining pink at the sting of the cold November air. The sun crawls steadily forward as it waits for him to speak, clouds sit still like paintings on a muted blue canvas. At long last, Junhui opens his eyes again.

“I miss you,” he continues, voice a brush over the crunch of leaves stirred on the footpath by slow winds. A sandy laugh ghosts through his lips. “But I guess that’s no surprise, right?” He sighs. “I haven’t had your birthday free in a long time, so I wanted to come celebrate. I brought carnations, like we had at our wedding. I assume you like them. I can’t remember if I ever asked, but you picked them out in the first place, so you’re stuck getting them now.” He sighs again.

“You know what I think about the most?” he asks, poring over the slopes of the headstone. “Would you still think I’m handsome if you could see me now? I know it doesn’t matter, but I’m always curious. My hair is so gray now; I’m not as much of a stud as I was in my thirties. You always looked so young, I’m sure you’d still be gorgeous. I hope you wouldn’t leave me for someone prettier. That would just be a little too cruel, yeah?

“Is Rooster with you now? I could tell he missed you a lot. He always liked you better.” A sob almost chokes him, but he pushes through. “Have I been to see you since I got a new dog? He’s gorgeous, Jihoon, a real good dog, a German shepherd. I named him after you. I bet you would hate that, but I couldn’t think of anything better to call him. I’m sure you would love him if you met him. Every night when I get home, he—ah, wait, I guess I never told you that, either. I moved out of the apartment and bought a house. It gets a little lonely sometimes when it’s just me, but every now and then, the kids—ah.” Hot tears slide down his cheeks in thin streams, single droplets tracing salt trails down to his chin and dripping off to meet the crisp brown grass under his shoes. With the cuff of one sleeve, he wipes at his eyes hard enough to smear them away, blind him to the world he’s still surrounded by.

“I guess it really has been a long time since we saw each other,” he begins, voice cracking. He kind of laughs at the sound of it, a half-chuckle over how Jihoon can still take him back to ninth grade in some ways even now. “We have so much to catch up on. I’ll have to tell you about everything you missed next time I see you.” The longer he stays, the more his eyes sting. A particularly biting gust tells him he ought to head home soon.

“I think I’ll head back now,” he says, hoarse. “I’ve almost started to forget how beautiful you are, so I think I’ll take another look at our wedding album tonight, at all those pictures I took of you way back when.” With one hand, he reaches out to pat the headstone in front of him, cold and unfeeling. “I miss you all the time,” he says, an infinite echo every time, building on itself until he can’t hear a thing. “I love you always.” With a huff, he pulls himself back to his full height and nods once before turning to walk away. “I’ll see you soon.”

That evening, Junhui watches the sunset for the first time in a long time, from a chair in his backyard with a quilt bunched around his body and the dog curled at his feet. He watches the steady descent of that glowing mass of distant hydrogen, burning its way below the horizon and washing the colors out of all it passes until everything in sight has been drained to black and gray, an inky envelope sealing them off forever, illuminated only by the half-made moon and far-off stars.

Looking at the stars has always reminded Junhui of Jihoon, but tonight especially, they’re working their celestial magic, drawing up pictures for him he knows have never been there, glittering with more zeal than he knows they possess. When he looks at them now, they remind him of something he let himself forget, swept under the rug. Right now, they tell him that beauty does not end when the sun has set, when the last golden rays of color have faded from the sky and the world is bathed in darkness. They are proving that beauty still exists beyond the sunset, nestled into the broad expanses of the black beyond, shining eternal regardless of where the heavy sun rests its weight in the sky, and in it, Junhui remembers another thing he’s let slip through his fingers, important as any fact he’s ever noted down: After every sunset comes another sunrise.

It’s a foolish thing to forget and a comforting thing to remember, that sunrise promised on the other side of the shimmering darkness. How could he ever have let himself miss it? The sunrise can never be separated from the sunset any more than the sea can be kept from touching the land. Junhui has seen the sun set, has watched every hue fade to stunning pitch, and now he has the privilege of watching it rise once again, fill every pocket of this corner of the world once more in gradients of rainbow as the universe dictates it must. Thinking about it brings a smile back to his lips, warmth back to his chest, and with a final glance at the likeness dancing in the stars in the sky, he returns inside.

The photographs in their wedding album seem to come to life when Junhui looks at them, photographs from their adventures before seem to suck him back in time, back to youth and happiness, pull him headfirst into memories so far back he’s nearly forgotten them. In his living room, he can see Jihoon dancing, hear him singing, feel his heartbeat thrumming through his chest and quaking his ribs. He closes his eyes and they’re ice skating, they’re gazing up at the dancing greens of the aurora, they’re watching the fireworks at Disney decorate the sky with sizzling clouds of smoke. He opens his eyes and everything is still there, beating beneath his skin, running electric through all his arteries.

“I was so lucky,” he whispers to nobody, eyeing the moon through the window so far. “We really were lucky.” And when he climbs into bed and shuts his eyes to wait for the sunrise that has to come, he knows it’s true.

Sunlight filtering in through the blinds is what rouses Junhui again when he wakes, but it’s not the same as the day before. Somehow, it’s fuller, more real, stirs something deep inside him. When he tries to push himself up from his back, his body feels strange, heavy and stiff, too frail to do what it needs to do. A hand falls gentle on his shoulder, heaves him up from the mattress with a firm push.

“Shake a leg,” calls a voice Junhui could never forget the sound of, and he turns his head toward it too quickly for his neck to bear.

Sure as the sun sits in the sky each day, there is Jihoon, unmistakable before him, though he doesn’t look at all the same. Aged and hunched, he looks at least fifty years older than he had when Junhui last laid eyes on him, hair white and thinning, fingers warped into the cramped bends of arthritis, eyes hidden behind glasses far thicker than those he used to wear. Even through all the change, Junhui still finds he looks as beautiful as ever.

“Jihoon?” he croaks. His own voice sounds different on his ears, dusty and out of practice, aged and brittle. “Why are you here?”

“Why? To wake you,” Jihoon tells him like it’s obvious, tugging him to his feet by the hand. Junhui takes a glance at his own hand while Jihoon pulls it and finds it just as aged as Jihoon’s, wrinkled and stiff and no longer strong enough to do so many things it once did. The gold wedding band still shines on his ring finger as it does on Jihoon’s. “We’ll miss the sunrise if you don’t get moving.”

“Is this a dream?” Junhui asks, finally on his feet, knees screaming in their ache. It certainly doesn’t feel like a dream, but there’s no way to think it’s anything else when Jihoon is here and beside him and breathing just fine. Jihoon glances back while Junhui follows him outside, looks him over with lowered eyebrows and eyes glittering with curiosity before huffing and turning back around.

“Of course not,” he scoffs, hobbling ever forward. “What’s gotten into you today?” Junhui would also like to know. He’d like to know what day today is, why he’s here, who he’s become and how he did it. He’d like to know how he can so vividly feel Jihoon’s weary hands on his skin when he’s never felt it before. He’d like to know many things, but he keeps his lips sealed tight instead of asking, lets Jihoon lead him to the couple of chairs set up in the backyard and guide him into one.

Slow as ever, the sun rises from its nightly slumber, crawling up above the clouds with a numb lethargy and painting every living shade above them in the sky. Beside him, Junhui feels Jihoon’s hand find its way into his, fingers fitting themselves like puzzle pieces between his own with a careless ease that says they do so often, have done so for years, will do so forever. Jihoon breathes out through his nose, slow and whistling, eyes turned fully to the pink sky.

“It’s a beautiful sunrise, don’t you think?” he muses, and without warning, it hits Junhui that this must be what he was always after, the timeline away where they’re allowed to be lucky, to have everything they wanted to have, to live long and happy under sunrises flecked in peach and orange. Maybe he doesn’t know how he got here, but maybe that’s not important. Maybe it is a dream after all, but maybe it feels real enough to ignore that. He gives Jihoon’s hand a squeeze to make sure it’s still there, still real, and feels his heart beating again through his fingers, strong and alive.

“I love you, Jihoon,” Junhui tells him. Jihoon laughs something light and airy, offers a gentle squeeze back that Junhui’s nerves barely detect.

“You say that every day,” he mourns, smile audible. “Can’t you ever just answer my question?”

“Do you love me?” Junhui asks in lieu of answering once again. Jihoon sighs, fond and tired, content and restless.

“Of course I love you,” he says, still watching the sun on its rise, clouds lining themselves in gold. “I always have.”

“The sunrise sure is beautiful,” Junhui agrees at last, then, “I have so many stories to tell you.” Jihoon snorts, and he is the same as he always was.

“You always do, don’t you?”

“Will you listen?”

“Of course I’ll listen.” The sun by now has fully risen, no colors remaining in the dawn sky but a bright baby blue, clouds dancing in their white stillness, cool air of the morning setting dewdrops on their skin. “Tell me all about them, Junhui.” A quiet breeze ripples by, chills Junhui’s old bones while his lungs catch youthful fire again. “Tell me everything.”

When Junhui turns to look at Jihoon, he sees in his eyes the riveting palette of a thousand bygone sunsets, hears the tune of a dance for every day. He sees the love tucked into every crease of his face, the countless smiles and kisses placed, the garden of life wreathing his features. In those eyes, he sees stars arranged in constellations he doesn’t recognize, and in that stellar swirl, he finds himself at home. Of course he’ll tell Jihoon everything, every detail to his name. He can’t afford to spare a single word. After all, a chance as lucky as this one may never come again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you call in the comments for me to be burned at the stake, LISTEN: i said in the first chapter that the fic would not be sad and it isn't. is the ending sad? i mean. yeah. but like the fic itself isn't... it's a story about 2 people who love each other a lot and have a lot of fun together and get married. remember all the other good times we had before even if you're sad now and please do not burn me in effigy or leave comments professing your deathless hate for me. i'm fragile. also this took a lot out of me from here on out i'm only ever writing 100% happy junhoon ever again  
> now it's time to say thank you (for the final time!!!) to everyone who bothered to read and give me a chance. i'm glad you all came along with me on this journey and decided to continually come back and wait for new chapters and all that fun reader jazz you all do. the feedback on this fic has been incredible (thank you for 300 kudos wtf!!!) and you all made me feel like it was really worth it to keep writing even when i would rather have died than type out another word. at a swole 100k, this is the absolute longest thing i have ever written in my life and likely to be the longest i ever will write, and even if i come to hate it and wish i hadn't spent six months of my precious youth slaving over it, it will always be a really big accomplishment for me, and thank u all for being a part of it  
> with that said, we can bid our final goodbyes. i hope you enjoyed this story from the beginning to end, and i hope it made you feel something. if you ever cried, i hope it was a good cry, and if you ever laughed, i hope you had a really good laugh. i hope you smiled when you read and had a good time wasting 100000 words' worth of your attention on me. for the very last time, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! maybe i'll see you around some other time

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello. i've been wanting to do a multi-chapter junhoon for a looooong time and finally we've made it here. i know this SEEMS like it'll be sad but keep in mind that i am the big happiness lover round these parts and you never know until it's over so i ask that you stick with me. it's been a good minute since i wrote anything chaptered and i'm very out of practice, but i will do my best and ask of you only patience. i hope you enjoyed the first chapter enough to hold on for the second, and i'll (hopefully) see you at the next update. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, and thank you so much for reading!


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